


Tenshi Gakuen

by Harukami, thehoyden



Category: Tenshi ni Narumon (I'm Gonna be an Angel)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-01-06
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 141,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harukami/pseuds/Harukami, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehoyden/pseuds/thehoyden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is an old, essentially original fic universe based on two characters from Tenshi ni Narumon, with a boatload of original characters.  We're putting it up here for the sake of completeness -- purple prose, fangirl Japanese, dubious formatting, and all -- and because we had great fun writing it togehter.  These are really a series of short stories, but they're posted as chapters to keep everything tidy and together.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Trust

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old, essentially original fic universe based on two characters from Tenshi ni Narumon, with a boatload of original characters. We're putting it up here for the sake of completeness -- purple prose, fangirl Japanese, dubious formatting, and all -- and because we had great fun writing it togehter. These are really a series of short stories, but they're posted as chapters to keep everything tidy and together.

Mikael found it a bit curious that the Most Holy insisted upon day and night  
in the School. After all, now that he was angel, what did he really need with a  
diurnal clock? When he had inquired of Raphael on the subject, the one-winged  
angel cheerfully muttered something about imposed natural rhythms, which only  
succeeded in confusing Mikael further. In the end, he decided, it just meant he  
still went to sleep, still ate food, and his hair still needed to be trimmed on  
a semi-regular basis.

Wincing as he turned onto his back, he added another to the list - he still  
had to groom his wings. Previously he had neglected to consider that wings were  
an extension of the body, and thus need care just like everything else. Beside  
him on the futon, Raphael was still blissfully asleep, his cinnamon brown hair  
mussed and his limbs entwined in the sheets. Frowning, Mikael sat up, trying to  
reach the obstinate feather. The sheets puddled around his lap as he craned his  
head and stretched his fingers towards the middle of his back. After a few  
moments of fruitless effort, he gingerly shifted his wings down a little, and  
wiggled his fingers, trying to close the gap of a few centimeters.

Warm lips touched his shoulder, making him gasp in surprise. "You could  
have asked for help," Raphael's sleep-roughened voice reproved gently.  
Mikael's eyelids fluttered shut as the older angel kissed a trail up his neck,  
he shivered a bit as teeth grazed his ear...

And he let out an undignified yelp as Raphael plucked out the elusive  
feather. "There we are," Raphael said with satisfaction.  
"Irritated down feathers are really remarkably equivalent to pimples, you  
know. Unfortunately, unlike the latter, you really don't grow out of them,"  
he observed, continuing his inspection of his student's wings.

"Well, good morning to you, too," Mikael huffed, his feathers  
literally ruffled.

The one-winged angel grinned and patted him on the rear. "It didn't hurt  
_that_ much. If you want, I could kiss it and make it better," he  
offered with a smile that promised much more.

So it was that, mid-kiss, a gold envelope appeared in the air with a small  
flash of light. Mikael was quite irked as Raphael held him in an embrace,  
reading the letter behind his back. "What does it say?" he demanded,  
trying to turn his head enough to see, while Raphael conveniently removed the  
letter from his line of vision. Raphael hummed in response, which only provoked  
the hapless aqua-haired angel even more. Pushed to the limits of his patience,  
he knocked the older angel back onto the futon and pinned him down, neatly  
retrieved the letter.

"I wonder why Gabriel-sama wants to see us?" he mused quietly after  
reading it, blowing a few errant strands of aqua hair out of his face.

"If I made golden letters appear, would you be on top more often?"  
Raphael inquired sweetly, moving sinuously against him and fluttering his  
eyelashes.

Mikael felt his face flush red. "We don't have time for that - we have  
to go see Gabriel-sama!"

"Not for another hour," the cinnamon-haired angel drawled,  
divesting them both of the sheet. "Besides, I promised you I'd kiss you and  
make everything better."

"Raphael-sama, I don't remember it hurting..._there_..."

   


* * *

The door to Gabriel's office bore a small plague reading "The  
Administrator." Directly underneath it was taped sheet of paper that read,

"For ETERNITY, or until I can dupe someone else into it." Raphael's  
lips twitched in amusement. "Looks like it's been one of those years,"  
he commented blithely to Mikael.

"Raphael!" a voice bellowed. "Quit wasting my time and get in  
here!" The one-winged angel raised an eyebrow but swiftly entered with  
Mikael in tow.

The Administrator, simply put, was a giant. Incredibly tall with piercing  
blue eyes and a mane of white hair, Gabriel looked ageless rather than old. He  
waved them both into the chairs in front of his desk, massaging his temple as he  
scanned a file. "Mikael," he said gruffly. "Congratulations on  
your attainment of full angel status." "Th-thank you, sir," the  
terrified young angel murmured.

"Stop that," the Administrator reprimanded sharply. "Do me a  
favor and pretend you have a spine. Have some pride in your position, boy - I  
have work for you to do."

Raphael had already casually draped himself into a chair and helped himself  
to the bowl of mints on the desk. "So, G-man, what requires our  
presence?"

Gabriel's gaze was withering. "You always were impudent. And I'm sure  
you already know, since Azrael has a tendency to babble when he's drunk."

"Raphael-sama?" Mikael questioned, looking very confused.

The one-winged angel shrugged. "Azrael and I got toasted a couple of  
days ago. It's a yearly thing." Suddenly serious, he sat up attentively in  
his chair. "Does anyone have any idea why Suriel would disappear like  
that?"

The Administrator leaned back in his chair and sighed. "No, not really.  
Suriel's always been Azrael's benevolent other half. They may both be Angels of  
Death, but with Suriel gone, I have to rely entirely on Azrael, which is really  
a tremendously bad idea. Old habits die hard and Azrael just couldn't be  
non-punishment oriented if he tried. So, the word from the Metatron is that  
Suriel's to be found at once." Gabriel's lips pursed like he'd just eaten a  
lemon when he mentioned the name of Metatron, the Voice of Most Holy.

Raphael looked wary, but nodded in agreement. "I can go myself - there's  
no reason to take Mikael from his duties."

The Administrator rolled his eyes. "The Metatron, that glorified  
secretary, says he goes with you."

"He was that specific?" Raphael asked with a raised eyebrow.

The white-haired angel nodded. "And that snippy. The Most Holy is not  
pleased that his nice Angel of Death just wandered off without even a 'gone  
fishing' note. When the Most Holy is unhappy, Metatron gets positively waspish.  
And," he continued, "Mikael needs the experience anyway, so decree or  
not, this is a good opportunity." Shuffling his papers, he bade them a good  
afternoon and both rose to leave.

On their way out the door, Gabriel added, "One more thing, Mikael. Don't  
let that one-winged rascal bully you into filling out the expenditure  
report."

Raphael's response was an impolite hand gesture.

   


* * *

Mikael did a lot of watching the first day of the search. Raphael called  
around on his cell phone to various contacts, to ask their opinions as to where  
the errant benevolent Angel of Death might be. Raphael stalked around the  
bedroom, feathers becoming more agitated with each fruitless call. Mikael sat  
quietly and made himself useful by making pot after pot of tea, which Raphael  
consumed in frustration between calls. When it was late, Mikael closed his  
fingers around the phone and Raphael's hand. "You should get some  
sleep," he urged quietly. "We can start again in the morning."

Raphael's eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to protest vehemently -  
then, just as quickly, surrendered. When he took his student later in the  
shadows of night, Mikael accepted Raphael's frustration without complaint,  
submitting to the elder angel's need for release. After Raphael rolled over to  
go to sleep, Mikael stared at the ceiling. He wanted comfort…he wanted an  
answer to a question.

"Why, of all the others, did you choose me, Raphael-sama?" he asked  
in the barest of whispers.

Raphael certainly had his pick. His seniority, his devil-may-care attitude,  
and his good looks made him an easy object of desire. Upon being admitted full  
angel status, Mikael had encountered good-natured teasing and even a small  
amount of spite for being at Raphael's side. Mikael wasn't sure if the  
one-winged angel was aware of that, but he had borne it stoically, determined  
not to let it get to him. After all, he had Raphael-sama, so that was that.

Was it?

He turned over in bed and cuddled close to Raphael. _Why do you love me?_  
He wanted to ask. _Why love a new student, a shy, inexperienced, uncertain  
boy?_ He pressed his face to the older angel's back and traced the scar where  
the other wing had been. "What's so special about me?" he asked almost  
silently, plaintively.

With his back turned to him, Mikael couldn't see that Raphael's eyes were  
still open.

   


* * *

In the predawn hours, Mikael was awakened by the ringing of the cell phone.  
Blearily, he rolled over and out of the futon, feeling around blindly for  
Raphael's discarded jacket. His fingers closing over the phone, he flipped it  
open and muttered, "Hello?"

"Oh - Mikael. This is Azrael, and I just wanted to tell you where the  
idiot is."

_It's too early to be talking with an Angel of Death,_ Mikael thought  
sourly. "Which idiot, Azrael?"

"My moronic other half. I'm pretty sure he's in the Wasteland,"  
Azrael responded, his voice harsh but containing an undercurrent Mikael couldn't  
pin down.

Mikael shoved his bangs out of his face and sighed, racking his brain for a  
rational explanation - and failing. "The Wasteland? What would he being  
doing there?"

There was a pause on the other end. "He goes there to think, sometimes.  
Usually after we've made a visit down to Earth. Before he disappeared we went to  
India. The earthquake, you know." A loud sigh made Mikael jerk back,  
startled. "I don't think Gabriel told you, either because he didn't know or  
he didn't think it was important that you know. Suriel's been kinda…down this  
past century. I thought it was just a phase, but…damn it, Mikael, things just  
aren't right."

"In what way are they not right?" Mikael asked cautiously, cradling  
the phone between his cheek and his shoulder.

"He's angry. I know everything would be okay if he would just Talk to  
Most Holy, but he won't listen to me. At all. He stormed out of our home the  
other day, and that's when I put in the request to the Metatron that somebody  
find him and try and talk some sense into him. Most Holy knows I wasn't getting  
anywhere," he explained, his voice twisted with bitterness. "So…take  
it easy on him, won't you?" Then he snorted in derision. "Like you  
even needed me to say that. I just hope Raphael can help him. Let me know if you  
need anything, Mikael. Ciao."

Mikael stared at the phone, then slowly pressed the off button. Azrael's  
words made his mind reel. Spinning around, he succeeded in bonking his forehead  
on Raphael's shoulder. Apparently sometime during the phone conversation the  
one-winged angel had sat up behind him.

"He's in the Wasteland, is he?" Raphael asked quietly, his eyes  
hard. There was something about his tone that raised the hair on the back of  
Mikael's neck - his voice was firm, containing a quality of inevitability about  
it that frightened the younger angel.

Mikael nodded slowly and found himself reaching for Raphael's hand. He  
replayed the conversation in his mind. _Take it easy on him, won't you?_

"Azrael thinks he's depressed."

Raphael's eyes widened. "Damn it. We have to go. Now, and not later,  
Mikael!" he punctuated his exclamation with pat on the younger angel's  
rear, and went about retrieving his clothes from their haphazard resting places  
on the floor. Suddenly he stopped, and went to his closet. "Here, wear  
this," he instructed Mikael, and threw clothing at him.

Mikael held it up in front of him and wrinkled his nose in puzzlement, but  
went ahead and put on the dark blue Mandarin tunic and trousers. "It fits  
perfectly," he admired, examining himself in the mirror.

"There's a good reason for that," Raphael said cheerfully.  
"Measurements taken when one is nude are always the most accurate, wouldn't  
you agree? Now let's go."

"Raphael-sama!" Mikael howled in protest.

"I said _let's go_, Mikael."

   


* * *

The Wastelands were aptly described. Craggy, mountainous terrain and a  
perpetually overcast sky gave the land a dead, deserted feeling. But as it  
turned out, Azrael was right. On the highest peak, Suriel sobbed and wailed, his  
voice echoing throughout the Wastelands.

Mikael was surprised to see how beautiful Suriel was. While some angels were  
plain or even ugly, Suriel was breathtaking. Golden hair pooled at his feet, and  
his cornflower blue eyes would have stolen his breath away if they weren't  
reddened from weeping. Looking out of the corner of his eye, Mikael saw Azrael's  
jaw tighten at the sight of his lover. "Stay here, Mikael," Raphael  
instructed grimly. "He's very dangerous right now - under no circumstances  
do you approach him." Mikael watched the one-winged angel calmly walk out  
onto the cliff where Suriel stood. At the sound of his footsteps, the weeping  
angel turned, and Mikael's stomach lurched at what the angel cradled in his  
arms. A stillborn infant.

"Raphael," Suriel choked out, his entire form grieving. "I  
won't go back, Raphael! I won't take any more!" He cradled the dead infant,  
rocking back and forth in a hideous parody of a mother. His voice contained  
brittle shards of hysteria as he cried, "No more! I won't take any more  
children! Why does the Most Holy want them? Why does Most Holy make me bring  
them?!!" His sobbing became louder, more ragged.

"You know why," Azrael muttered to himself, sotto voce. He folded  
his arms and leaned against the stone wall behind him, masses of coal-colored  
hair obscuring his face.

"I'm sure Most Holy has reasons," Raphael began carefully, edging  
towards him. Mikael watched carefully, biting his lower lip in worry.

"To Hell and Morning Star with Most Holy's reasons! They aren't good  
enough for me!" Suriel hissed, his wings flaring. "I can't…I can't  
be like Azrael - I love him so, but I can't say 'Yes, Most Holy' anymore when He  
commands me to take souls to heaven from atrocities He commands Azrael to  
perpetrate. There's just NO REASON!!! Why must there be earthquakes and floods?  
Why the famines and plagues?" Suriel was shrieking now, his eyes wild,  
almost forgetting the dead infant in his arms.

Beside Mikael, the Angel of Death shifted his wings in irritation. "Have  
you forgotten, my dear?" he murmured, a frustrated current running through  
his voice. "It's not our duty to question, only to do the will of Most  
Holy."

Mikael looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and thanked the universe  
all over again that he had never had to pass the tests required of Azrael and  
his counterpart. But the black-winged angel's words brought him up short - had  
Suriel truly forgotten, or was he just rebelling?

He wanted to ask, but his eyes followed Raphael as he tried to approach the  
half-mad angel. Suriel drew a sword blazing with holy fire from seeming midair  
and Raphael stopped in his tracks. "Not another step, _Medicus_. You  
won't brainwash me back into doing Most Holy's dirty work."

"Why don't you Talk to Most Holy?" Raphael asked casually, as if  
inviting him to tea. Mikael tensed up, knowing his love was completely serious.

"DON'T MOCK ME!!!" Suriel screamed, cornflower blue eyes almost  
black with rage. "Azrael suggested the same thing, but we've all heard the  
trauma stories from angels who have Talked. I won't risk it! And it won't change  
the fact that I know Most Holy is using me, _using me_! Using me to take  
infants from their mothers, innocent children from earth!"

Azrael slammed a fist against the stone. "Of course he is. That's why  
you're here." Mikael flinched from the unexpected action, and began to  
think that perhaps it was safer with Raphael.

"My love," Raphael called, his voice deadly calm. "Step out of  
the shadows."

Mikael nervously walked out into the light, not entirely certain if he was  
thankful, and was sure to stay a good distance away. At his appearance, Suriel's  
grip on his sword tightened. "What kind of trick is this, Medicus? You  
think your student will sway my mind, that I will surrender to his charms as you  
have? You are a fool, Raphael…and here I thought intimate relationships  
between teachers and students were strongly discouraged. Though I suppose the  
Professor may bend whichever rules he chooses," he taunted.

Raphael narrowed his earth-brown eyes. "Rules in a handbook don't govern  
the heart, Suriel. You ought to know that. You and Azrael were the original  
forbidden couple, after all."

Suriel's sobbing had ceased for the moment as he contemplated that. As if  
another person, he stared at the deceased infant in his arms. "How careless  
of me," he gently reproached himself, and carefully let the soul ascend to  
Heaven. The beautific smile on his face as he let the soul go was heartbreaking  
in its radiance.

Raphael came up to him and rested an arm on his shoulder. "See now -  
that wasn't so bad. Won't you come along? If you can get your answers,  
everything will be better," he urged, his voice soothing.

"Better?" Suriel whispered, a faint thread of hope in his voice. He  
took one slow, deep breath and shuddered.

"All you have to do is Talk with Most Holy-" Raphael got no further  
because Suriel backhanded him, sending him stumbling backward.

"I hate the Most Holy!" he shrieked furiously, his voice hoarse and  
terrible. "I hate him! _I HATE HIM FOR MAKING THIS MY FATE!_" He  
picked the dazed Raphael up by the collar and flung him into the nearby  
escarpment with an angel's horrifying strength, and Raphael slumped like a rag  
doll.

"Raphael-sama!" Mikael cried out, feeling his heart would turn  
traitor and stop beating.

Suriel panted, eyes crazed and mouth almost foaming. Slowly, so slowly his  
fist clenched around his sword and he advanced to Raphael's fallen form. Mikael  
phased over immediately in front of Raphael. "Not another step,  
Suriel," he warned bleakly. "You try to kill my Raphael-sama and I'll  
kill you first."

An icy hand rested on his shoulder. "Not your role, Mikael."

Suriel's eyes blinked backed to unnerving normalcy. "Azrael? When did  
you get here?"

Coal-black wings flexed. "I wouldn't leave you," the Angel of Death  
said, his voice firm and reassuring. The tall, cold beauty faced Suriel, his  
normal sneer replaced by an expression of almost grudging care.

Crouched down by the unconscious Raphael, Mikael watched the two. Azrael had  
said Suriel wouldn't listen to him. "Suriel," the young angel  
interjected. "I've Talked with Most Holy. It's not so bad as everyone says,  
really."

Eyes of cornflower blue stared into midnight.

"It was quite nice, actually," Mikael continued. No reaction.  
Suriel's gaze did not for an instant deviate from Azrael's face. He may as well  
have not spoken at all. _He's not going to listen to me, either._

But wait. What was it that Raphael once said? 'Sometimes we just have to  
trust our loved ones to know what's best for us.'

The pain and confusion so readily apparent in Suriel's eyes as he gazed at  
his beloved made Mikael think that the golden-haired angel might be ready to  
trust.

Azrael held out a hand to his lover. "It's the only way for us to be  
together, my dear. Won't you come with me?" It was a plea disguised in a  
guttural mutter, almost imperceptible unless one was looking for it. Mikael was,  
and to him it was as obvious as the sun.

Mikael watched with baited breath as indecision flared in Suriel's eyes. The  
golden-haired angel shifted his weight forward slightly. Just take that step!  
Mikael urged in his mind. And finally he knew how he could help. "Azrael  
only wants what's best for you, Suriel. Trust him!" he begged, his voice  
cracking.

Suriel took one halting step forward and then hurled himself into Azrael's  
arms. The black-winged Angel of Death surrounded him with a fierce embrace while  
he sobbed incoherent apologies. "It's going to be alright," Azrael  
said in a harsh whisper. "It's all going to be okay. I'll come with  
you."

Cornflower blue shimmering with new tears looked up. "You…will?"  
Suriel asked, the question marred by a little hiccup.

Azrael clutched him tighter. "Didn't I tell you I'd never leave you  
alone? Did you really think I'd let you go talk to Most Holy without me?"

"You never said you were going to," Suriel protested, sniffling.

"You little idiot," Azrael whispered. Though his voice was no  
different than normal, his eyes softened and held a kind of guarded tenderness .  
"I thought you knew. We'll go see Most Holy and then we're going  
home." Suriel smiled tremulously, and Azrael looked over at Mikael.  
"Can you take care of him?" he asked, his eyes resting on Raphael's  
fallen form.

Mikael nodded, not wanting to disturb the two. Black and white wings spread,  
and hand-in-hand, the Angels of Death flew back to Heaven where Most Holy  
waited.

Mikael turned around to check Raphael for injuries, and was relieved to  
discover his breathing was still steady and his wing was, amazingly enough,  
unharmed. Carefully he lifted his former teacher into his arms and spread his  
wings. They were going home too.

   


* * *

Raphael awoke to the clink of china. His eyes fluttering open, he focused on  
Mikael, who was neatly preparing tea with plenty of sugar - just the way Raphael  
liked. "Hey," the one-winged angel said, mildly surprised at the  
hoarseness of his voice.

Mikael gave him that adorable look of fussy disapproval, and Raphael noticed  
the dark rings of sleeplessness under his eyes. "You stay right where you  
are and no getting up. You're very lucky you only had a concussion from being  
thrown like that! It could have been more than just a lump, Raphael-sama."

"Well, it certainly feels like it," Raphael grumbled for show, not  
trying too hard to keep a smile from his face. Mikael walked gracefully across  
the room with a tray, which he set on the tatami mat beside the futon.  
"This isn't tea," Raphael observed as the younger angel handed him a  
cup.

Mikael snorted. "No, it's a tisane from one of your medical books. It  
smells horrible but I followed your directions, so I think it's alright."

Raphael sat up a bit and swallowed the contents of the cup in one gulp.  
"Yeah, it tastes horrible too. But I've long held that if medicine tasted  
good, people might be tempted to stay sick." Mikael handed him a delicate  
teacup with what smelled like Earl Grey tea, his personal favorite, and helped  
prop him up with pillows. "Did everything turn out okay?" he asked,  
staring intently at his teacup.

"Everything's just fine," Mikael reassured him quietly.

After a few moments, Raphael raised an eyebrow at his former student over his  
teacup. Mikael was still kneeling at the side of the futon and watching him with  
eagle-eyed concern. "I'm not going to up and die, you know," he  
assured him. "Granted, I shouldn't participate in any major ballet  
productions or go bungee jumping, but I really will be fine with about two days  
rest."

"You have two weeks," Mikael informed him.

"What? Has Gabriel gone soft in his old age?" Raphael demanded, his  
tone incredulous.

Mikael's cheeks turned a rather becoming shade of pale rose.  
"Umm…well…no. Never mind."

Raphael narrowed his eyes and tipped up Mikael's chin. "Never mind what?  
What happened?"

Mikael's ears had long since turned pink as well. "I sort of told him to  
go away. I decided we deserved a little vacation."

Raphael doubled over in laughter at his audacity. "Come here, you,"  
he beckoned, patting the space next to him in the futon. Mikael gingerly crawled  
in, taking excruciating care of this wings. Raphael frowned in concern and  
gently touched one. "Mikael," he threatened, "What did you do to  
yourself?"

"I flew back to heaven carrying you. You're not exactly light,  
Raphael-sama," Mikael mumbled.

Raphael's eyes flew open in shock. "All that way? I take back everything I said about your ineptitude at flight." Mikael  
snuggled up to him, laying his head on Raphael's shoulder. "I think you  
should go back to sleep now, Raphael-sama. I don't like hurting injured  
people." He looked up with an innocent smile.

"Well, well, well. I think my love is growing a spine," the  
one-winged angel teased. "I think I have to inspect to be sure."

Mikael seized his questing hand. "Raphael-sama!" he protested, his  
face earnest. "You have a concussion - I really don't think we should  
be-"

One of the things that Raphael had long known was that there were two ways to  
shut Mikael up - food and kisses. He employed the latter method, soundly kissing  
the aqua-haired angel into silence. Minutes later he broke off and smiled down  
at Mikael. "Alright," he said softly. "I'll behave myself, so  
long as you don't give me more of my own medicine. But will you sleep with me  
for awhile?"

Mikael made an affirmative sound and gathered the blankets, tenderly tucking  
them around the injured angel before settling down himself. Raphael wrapped an  
arm around Mikael and closed his eyes.

"Don't ever do that again. I thought my heart would stop when I saw you  
hit the cliff face," Mikael murmured quietly against his shoulder. Raphael  
tightened his half-embrace.

"Join the club. I've been worrying about you forever."

They were quiet for a few moments, just luxuriating in being together.  
Eventually, Mikael ventured in a drowsy voice, "Raphael-sama…thank you.  
You've only ever wanted what was best for me."

"Shhh…go to sleep, Mikael. You look like you stayed up all  
night," Raphael whispered. The aqua-haired angel looked exhausted and  
already mostly asleep. Raphael watched his chest rise and fall with his even  
breathing for some time, before whispering, "I chose you because I loved  
you. I've always loved you, even when you wouldn't look my way or hear my words.  
Even when the rulebook said I should not lose my heart to you, I couldn't  
obey." Raphael leaned over and murmured, "You really are everything to  
me, Mikael."

Mikael's lips turned up into a tender smile in the midst of his feigned  
sleep, and he made a small noise of surprise as Raphael kissed him thoroughly.  
Breaking away, he gasped, "Raphael-sama, I thought you said…"

Raphael nipped his ear gently. "Hush, you. I wrote the books on medicine  
and on school protocol, so I get to break all my own rules."

He did just that.


	2. Trump

Mikael was sitting cross-legged on the floor, pins held between his lips as  
he patiently mended one of Raphael's jackets. His golden eyes glimmered with  
determination as he chastised the jacket for not cooperating, and Raphael  
pressed a hand to his mouth to keep himself from laughing. "Becoming quite  
domestic, aren't we?" he drawled, leaning in the doorway.

Mikael's head snapped up with surprise, and it was pure luck he didn't  
swallow one of the pins. Eyes widening, in consternation, he swiftly removed the  
pins from his mouth. "Raphael-sama! You're not supposed to be home yet - I  
haven't even started dinner!" he protested, visibly upset.

Raphael pushed off the doorframe and held out a package neatly wrapped in  
brown paper. "That was sort of the point, Mikael. To bring dinner before  
you made it." At Mikael's quizzical look, he clarified, "Chinese  
take-out. Thought you'd like a break from cooking for a change."

The younger angel's cheeks turned faintly pink, and he lowered his eyes.  
"Thank you…that was very thoughtful of you, Raphael-sama." He  
paused, his lips pursing in thought. "Though in all honesty, I think it was  
your turn to cook tonight anyway."

The one-winged angel raised his dark eyebrows and shrugged noncommittally,  
then stretched out beside Mikael on the tatami mat. "What possessed you to  
do that?" he asked curiously, indicating the jacket with a wave of the  
hand. "It's not as though that's the only one I have - you didn't need to  
do it."

"Need and want are usually two different things, Raphael-sama,"  
Mikael responded quietly, knotting off the end of his thread. "Besides - I  
know this one is your favorites, since you've picked it up every morning this  
week and then threw it aside when you saw the hole again."

Raphael laughed somewhat sheepishly. "I suppose you're right." He  
kissed Mikael on the cheek in thanks, then got up and wandered to the kitchen.  
After cleaning up, Mikael joined him and set about making tea. "How was  
class this morning?"

The aqua-haired angel wrinkled his nose. "Class itself went mostly  
okay…except for the usual nonsense with Cherior, whom I will kill one of these  
days," he grumbled, naming Azrael's protégé. "He's disruptive in the  
classroom and he keeps picking on Nareba, despite my moving him across the room  
and chastising him for heckling her."

Raphael paused in his unpacking of the take-out cartons. "You might want  
to have a talk with the Az about that sometime," he said.

"Azrael is just as bad, Raphael-sama. I don't think he'd perceive a  
problem," Mikael said glumly, carefully poured the tea into two cups and  
set them both on a tray, as well as the teapot. "Coming,  
Raphael-sama?" he called over his shoulder, walking carefully over to their  
low table.

Raphael followed and knelt on a pillow, setting their dinner on the table.  
Their room looked much like their apartment in Japan - when Raphael had  
mentioned to Mikael that he could redecorate their home as he pleased, the  
one-winged angel came home to tatami mats, futons, flower arrangements, and a  
low cherry-wood table for two. Not that he minded, but he found Mikael's need  
for continuity surprising at times. With all the changes surrounding becoming an  
angel teacher, Mikael clung to things that stayed the same - their home life  
being one of them.

"So, how was your day?" Mikael asked between bites.

"It was great. I went and bugged the hell out of the Metatron,"  
Raphael responded enthusiastically, punctuating the name with a stab of his  
chopsticks.

Ah-hah. There was the frown of disapproval. "Don't you do any work  
around here, Raphael-sama?" Mikael accused, his eyes narrowing.

Raphael tapped him on the nose with a chopstick. "Of course I do. We had  
a discussion about gate security, in fact." He returned to demolishing a  
mountain of fried rice, chewing serenely. Mikael looked unconvinced, so Raphael  
changed tactics. Holding up a small piece of sweet and sour chicken, he cajoled,  
"Say 'aah', Mikael."

Mikael's pale eyebrows flew up in surprise, but he obediently opened his  
mouth and his eyes fluttered closed. Raphael took the opportunity to give him a  
tender kiss before feeding him the chicken. They ate the rest of the meal in  
companionable silence, occasionally offering each other food with lacquered  
chopsticks.

Mikael looked up from fiddling with his teacup, his wispy hair obscuring his  
the golden depths of his eyes. Raphael read puzzlement in the creased brows,  
anxiety in the pursed lips. He leaned back to wait for Mikael's curiosity to get  
the better of him. As usual, he did not have long to wait.

"Does it storm here, Raphael-sama?" came the question at long last,  
voiced with a teacher's professional interest and with an overtone of a  
student's fear of the unknown.

Raphael craned his head around to look out the window. The almost perpetual  
sunshine was gone now, to be replaced by mournful clouds and a cruel wind that  
lanced through the heavens. "Come with me," he said, rising from the  
table and padding softly on bare feet over to the window seat. Stretching out,  
he pulled the younger angel into his lap and settled him there, his arms wrapped  
about Mikael and his chin resting on his shoulder.

"It's on the principle that you can't know good without knowing evil;  
you can't appreciate love until you've known loneliness," Raphael lectured,  
his voice firm but gentle. "Do you understand me so far, Mikael?" The  
younger angel nodded slowly, the silky skin of his face brushing Raphael's own.  
"You probably won't ever see it snow here, unless Most Holy is in an odd  
mood, but occasionally it will thunderstorm."

"There's no lightening yet," Mikael breathed, as if afraid to  
interrupt the storm. In the stillness of their home the howling wind could be  
heard with ease, and a small smile tugged at the corners of Raphael's mouth as  
he felt Mikael lean back into him. Beneath his fingers and his chin Raphael felt  
the smooth rustle of the younger angel's garments - Mandarin style and  
business-like, they conveyed his sense of duty.

"Look now," Raphael whispered into Mikael's ear, his breath  
stirring a few aqua strands. "See Uriel's handiwork?"

"The lightening?" his former student asked, voice colored with awe.

"Aa," he confirmed, his lips pressing to Mikael's smooth skin just  
above the collar. "Target practice, really. Remember down on Earth when  
people talked of being struck down by God? They were really talking about  
Uriel." He felt, rather than heard, Mikael's intake of breath as the sky  
lit up once more with Uriel's terrible power. Raphael stroked his fingers  
lightly over Mikael's chest in an effort to soothe the tensed muscles and  
ruffled feathers. "Afraid of a little storm?" he gently teased,  
smiling at the ghost of a frown that crossed Mikael's lips.

Mikael denied it with a small shake of the head, his hair brushing over  
Raphael's nose. "Liar," Raphael accused, his voice warm with barely  
hidden amusement. His lips touched the creamy skin of Mikael's throat, kissing  
and nibbling a bit, trying to taste more of him. "You know," Raphael  
said, his voice husky, "Uriel strikes down the wicked. Are you wicked, my  
lying love?"

"Raphael-sama!" Mikael protested, craning his neck so he could  
glare at him.

Gotcha, Raphael triumphed as he took advantage of the situation. Mikael made  
a mumbled sound of outrage as the older angel captured his lips, but soon he  
went deliciously limp, submitting to Raphael's questing kisses. _Won't you  
kiss back, 'Kael?_ he wondered, nibbling on the aqua-haired angel's full  
bottom lip.

"Are you still pouting?" Raphael questioned huskily, withdrawing  
minutely to search his former student's face.

Golden eyes flashed from languor to irritation. "I am not pouting,"  
he insisted, huffily launching himself out of Raphael's arms so he could turn  
around and face him.

Raphael took in the shallow breathing, the flushed face, and the mussed aqua  
hair in one slow look. "Of course not," he agreed with ease, feeling  
his heart beat faster. "But you are just sinfully desirable when you're  
upset with me."

His wing feathers flaring, it took Mikael a few moments to be able to produce  
coherent sound beyond sputtering. "Raphael-sama, do you do this on _purpose_?!"  
he demanded, his eyes looking wild as his former teacher crawled across the  
window seat towards him.

Raphael pounced and pushed the younger angel onto his back. "Do what on  
purpose?" he asked, before bending to lap and nip at the base of Mikael's  
neck. "Do this?" His finger circled one aroused nipple through his  
lover's silk-smooth shirt. "Or maybe this?" Mikael gasped as Raphael's  
fingers trailed down to his thighs.

"Everything!" Mikael exclaimed softly, part answer, part plea. Aqua  
lashes half-hid the earnest desire in his eyes, all the more beguiling in its  
honesty.

Raphael shivered in pleasure as the younger angel's hands slid inside his  
jacket, the feather-like caresses seemingly everywhere at once. "I'll show  
you everything," he mock-threatened, going for the collar of Mikael's  
mandarin tunic.

"You already have!" his former student reminded him in  
blood-stirring, breathy little whisper.

Raphael frowned in frustration as the damnably small closures on Mikael's  
tunic refused to cooperate. "I've always found it helpful to reinforce  
lessons with repetition. Wouldn't you agree, love?" He accidentally popped  
the last hook off and peeled the offending barrier of cloth off Mikael.  
"Don't worry," he assured him as he kissed his way down from one  
slender shoulder to his chest. "I'll mend it for you," he lied  
smoothly.

   


* * *

The next morning, Mikael rounded a corner, almost skidding in his haste to  
get to the first year teachers' weekly meeting. He was late, he had far to many  
papers to grade-

WHAM!

He was dashed hard to the ground after the impact, the term papers scattering  
over the burnished hardwood floor. He groaned in despair, and then began  
apologizing to whomever it was he had just collided with, nearly babbling in his  
haste to get the words out. He looked up, and saw an angel in a pinstripe suit,  
his head bowed as he retrieved the last of the papers. But when his face tilted  
up - oh!

Impossibly blue eyes, face framed by unevenly shorn black locks. "My  
apologies," the angel apologized smoothly, his voice velvety and strong.  
"I wasn't looking where I was going, and frankly," here he gave Mikael  
an appraising look, "I'm rather glad I wasn't."

Mikael forced a polite smile to his face. "Th-thanks for helping me pick  
up my papers. I appreciate it, really." They both stood up, and Mikael  
backed up a little, preparing to walk around the angel.

"What's your hurry, sunshine?" the angel asked, settling a  
Sinatra-esque hat on his head and striding forward with easy confidence. Mikael  
gulped nervously and backed up against a door, his students' midterms clutched  
in his arms. "I - I'm just on my way to a staff meeting. I'll be late if I  
don't get going, so…"

Arms encased in navy pinstripe closed in on either side of his head.  
"Staff meetings are so overrated, don't you agree?" Warm breath  
tickled Mikael's forehead, and the aqua-haired angel licked his lips nervously,  
trying to discreetly find the doorknob behind him.

"Don't be scared, sunshine," the stranger crooned, black locks  
brushing Mikael's cheeks. "I won't hurt you..." Mikael squeaked in  
fright, trying to push the other away. His papers spilled onto the ground again  
as the unfamiliar angel seized him in a firm embrace. "Unless you want me  
to," he amended in a drawling murmur before stealing a kiss.

The door opened, and Mikael fell backward into someone's arms.  
"Uriel," Raphael growled. "hands _off_."

Uriel dusted off some imaginary dust off his suit. "Not my fault you  
have exquisite taste, dear heart," he said smoothly. "After all you  
picked me, didn't you?"

Raphael pursed his lips in annoyance, even as he felt Mikael stiffen in his  
arms.

"Well, I must be getting going. Good day, gentlemen." Uriel tipped  
his hat and made his way down the hall.

"Of all the arrogant, inconsiderate…" Mikael sputtered, his gold  
eyes glowing bright with anger and after-fright.

Raphael blew air from thinned lips, stirring his bangs. &lt;_Normally I  
don't care what he does. But where you're concerned, I most definitely do mind,_&gt;  
he thought at Mikael. &lt;_It's unfortunate, since we're playing cards with  
him tonight, along with Az and Suriel. Sorry, darling._&gt;

Mikael rounded on him. "And what's this about you and that….that  
ass?"

Raphael groaned and hung his head. "It was a loooong time ago, I swear  
to Most Holy…"

   


* * *

Mikael hated spades. Really, truly hated them. _Please don't ask me to pick  
it up please don't ask me to pick it up,_ he chanted mentally, biting his  
lower lip in his anxiety.

Raphael raised one eyebrow and his lips curved into a sensuous smile, somehow  
managing to look utterly delicious and piss Mikael off at the same time. He  
indicated the center card of doom, a ten of spades. "Why don't you go ahead  
and pick it up, darling?" he drawled magnanimously.

Mikael fought to keep the scowl off his face as he gingerly picked up the  
card and discarded a jack of hearts in its place. He had wanted to play  
pinochle, but nooooo. Raphael-sama and Azrael had wanted to play Euchre, and  
Euchre it was. Uriel had agreed easily to the idea, and Suriel was busy in the  
kitchen with dinner, methodically washing the dinner dishes.

Uriel led with an ace of diamonds, confidently throwing the card into the  
center of the table. Unevenly shorn locks of dark hair framed his delicate face,  
and tonight a beret was perched somewhat precariously upon his head. His  
impossibly blue eyes seemed to laugh at everyone. Raphael trumped with a nine of  
spades, causing Mikael to heave a mental sigh of relief. Raphael-sama just had  
to declare spades trump, of which Mikael had only one. Why couldn't he have let  
it go so hearts or diamonds could be declared? That he could have dealt with. Oh  
well - if they lost this hand, it would be all Raphael-sama's fault. Not that  
the cinnamon-haired angel would admit to it, but at least Mikael's conscience  
would be clear.

A foot rubbed his own, and Mikael pursed his lips in annoyance. He was hardly  
in the mood for footsie and made his irritation known by deliberately stepping  
on the offending toes.

Uriel winced and stifled an exclamation, and Raphael and Uriel looked up from  
their cards. "Knickers in a twist, punk?" Azrael asked with no  
sympathy whatsoever. Uriel shook his head, and Azrael growled, "Well, then  
quit mentally undressing the kid and fucking play a cards, already."

Raphael snorted in amusement and Mikael thought he heard a hiccup of laughter  
from Suriel in the kitchen. Kid? What kid?

He realized, suddenly, that they were talking about _him_. That Uriel  
had been looking at him. That the foot he had just stomped on belonged to one  
seriously peeved angel. Who could throw lightening. Who had bedded lower angels  
like it was going out of style. Who had slept with _his_ Raphael-sama in  
years past.

Mikael could almost feel the vein in his temple throbbing in a one seriously  
satisfying, good old-fashioned case of jealousy, mixed with a little  
embarrassment and a dollop of anger added for good measure. The current hand was  
over, with Raphael winning the trick by the skin of his perfect teeth.  
"Suriel," Mikael called. "Would you like to sit in a hand?"

Suriel looked up too quickly and banged his head on the cabinet door above.  
He swore softly and then agreed, swinging the heavy braid of his long golden  
hair over his shoulder. Mikael slid out of his seat and retreated to the  
kitchen, and started to mix requested drinks.

"So how did this happen?" Suriel asked suddenly. Mikael assumed he  
was talking about the hand. He assumed wrong.

"Must've been Omael," Azrael growled, long coal-black strands of  
hair obscuring the better part of his face. "Filthy bastard runs back and  
forth between Most Holy and the Morning Star. Can't even trust him to fuck the  
punk here and keep his mouth shut about it."

Uriel smiled thinly. "Not one of my finer moments, I assure you. I  
thought I had properly impressed on him the need for secrecy, but…" he  
trailed off with an angry flip of his hand. "Not that my conquests ever  
remain secret for long, you understand."

Raphael chuckled. "Maybe we ought to replace the nameplate under your  
portrait at the School. I think 'The Rake' in beautifully scripted letters would  
be an improved, more honest description."

The gold-haired angel of death looked at Uriel disapprovingly. "You went  
to bed with that trash? You know we're not supposed to have contact with the  
Unfaithful." He tsk-tsked quietly. "Not that's he's completely the  
property of the Morning Star, but honestly - don't you ever think before you do  
these things?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Uriel said blithely. He  
whispered something that Mikael's ears couldn't quite catch, but he suspected it  
was extremely naughty from the raucous laughter that erupted.

Drinks in hand, Mikael wandered back to the table, distributing them among  
the players. "Ano…does this have something to do with the graffiti on the  
Gates this morning?'

Raphael declined a drink, but pulled Mikael into his lap instead. "Our  
current best guess says Omael conveniently dropped his golden key," he  
murmured, his fingers lightly stroking Mikael's thigh.

"What key?" Mikael demanded, utterly confused.

Rolling his eyes, Uriel muttered, "Um, _hello_ \- the little metal  
thingies you use to hop in between planes of existence?"

Suriel looked flabbergasted, his wings puffing out like those of a  
disgruntled parrot. "How can you be a teacher and not know what keys  
are?" he asked incredulously. "Raphael, you incompetent…how could he  
have gotten by without you teaching him about the keys?"

Raphael frowned, resting his chin on Mikael's slender shoulder.  
"Saaa…I never did teach you, did I? I recall thinking at the time that  
you certainly picked up fast, but…" He held out one palm, and two  
well-worn keys materialized - one a soft gold, the other a burnished copper.  
"Keys are what allow angels to transcend planes - a metaphysical  
manifestation. A way to focus the mind, really."

Shifting his wings irritably, Azrael reached over and tipped Mikael's chin up  
with leather-encased fingertips. "The kid's weird," he pronounced  
finally. "Probably doesn't need the damn keys because his soul exists  
concurrently on Heaven and Earth."

Raphael's eyes grew bright at this explanation. "What a fabulous  
idea," he drawled. "Except that it doesn't make much sense, since he  
wasn't always in Heaven, nor were Silky and Noelle always on Earth."

Azrael absentmindedly cuffed the one-winged angel upside the head.  
"Moron. He's one messed-up kid. I bet he could knock on Morning Star's  
bedchamber door if he wanted to."

Raphael tightened his arms around Mikael at that statement. "Let's hope  
not."

   


* * *

The flight back to their home was not a long one, but Mikael welcomed the  
cool night air against his face. Flying a little a head of Raphael, he twisted  
in the wind, twirling in mid-air, sailing gracefully with the wind current when  
he wasn't engaging in small acrobatic moves. The starlight kissed the clouds  
around them and Mikael smiled at the simple, uninhibited pleasure of it all.

"Dancer," Raphael called ahead fondly. "Have some patience for  
those of us who were foolish enough to get into a bar fight with Azrael."

Mikael let his wings beat in place, waiting for Raphael to catch up. Mikael  
had once tried to tell him that it was aerodynamically impossible for him to fly  
at all, but Raphael had just offered a little smile. When pressed for an answer,  
he had simply replied, "Most Holy does not forget us." Still, he did  
fly a little lopsided, in disturbing little swoops, not unlike a sinusoidal  
wave.

Once home, they unrolled the futon and prepared for bed in comfortable  
silence. Raphael seemed subdued, and he didn't speak as he gathered Mikael to  
him in bed, arranging their wings comfortably.

Mikael stroked the arch of Raphael's wing softly, the equivalent of soft,  
chaste little kisses. He waited patiently for Raphael to speak. During the day,  
Raphael was flippant and toying, but there seemed to be something in the late  
sleepiness of the night that revealed his serious, tender side. And so Mikael  
waited, touching his wings to let him know that he wanted to hear his words.

Raphael cupped Mikael's chin with one hand, his thumb brushing over the  
Mikael's lips. His chocolate brown eyes seemed almost black in the scant light  
afforded by the stars. "They're right, you know - you are unusual."

Mikael permitted himself a little sigh of exasperation. "Thanks. I think  
we've had this conversation before. My wings were burning in the interim, if I  
recall correctly." He threw one leg over Raphael's so he could lie even  
closer.

"You were also a trifle unhinged, but let's not go there either,"  
Raphael murmured, a small smile turning the corners of his lips upward. His  
fingers traced a path down Mikael's side and over his slim hips, then pushed him  
gently onto his back. His hips resting between Mikael's thighs, he stroked the  
soft down on the underside of the younger angel's wings. "You know, it  
ought to be theologically impossible for you to exist…it's unprecedented to  
have 1/3 of a soul. Why do you think it is?"

Mikael gasped softly, a breathy little catch to his voice. "I don't  
know, Raphael-sama. But I'm with you and … you're the most important thing to  
me. _Taisetsuna_. And maybe it's like you said before - Most Holy doesn't  
forget us."

"Do you know what you're saying?" Raphael asked, his expression  
unreadable.

"I love you," Mikael whispered back. "I know that much."

Raphael's arms tightened about him, and they did not speak anymore that  
night.

   


* * *

"Are there any questions?" Mikael asked his class, shuffling his  
papers and tidying them into a neat pile on his desk. The question was almost  
rhetorical - this being the first class of the day, most of them could hardly be  
defined as being awake. What was it about first-year students? They never seemed  
to be quite with it until at least the fourth period - and Mikael suspected that  
this was only the case because at that point, lunch was right around the corner.

As expected, none of his students offered a response, except to sluggishly  
pack up their textbooks. The bells chimed and his students trudged out, quietly  
talking amongst themselves.

"Mikael-sama?" A clear, sweet voice intruded on his inner musings.

His head snapped up, and he tried not to cringe at the honorific. "Yes,  
Sophia?" he asked gently. "Is there something I can help you  
with?"

Her blue ringlets bobbed as she nodded vigorously. She plunked down in the  
dainty chair next to his desk and pulled out a few sheaves of paper. In some  
ways she reminded him almost painfully of Noelle, most remarkably in her ability  
to get herself into all manner of trouble without 1.) having meant to or 2.)  
noticing it at all.

Sophia jabbed a finger at a paragraph. "I know this isn't quite right,  
but I don't know how to fix it, Mikael-sama. I tried asking Uriel-sama because  
we went out for observation last night, but he said.." - here she rolled  
her eyes, tugging at a ringlet in consternation - "that he didn't have time  
to talk about grammar." She sniffed indignantly. "You'd think after  
being here since, like, forever that he would be really super fast at something  
like proofreading a paper."

Mikael fought hard to keep down a smile at the thought of her pestering the  
sensuous and indulgent Uriel with questions about main clauses and participles.  
"Well, Sophia, you know you can always come to me for help," he  
assured her. He then examined the paragraph in question, tapping his pen on the  
desk as he mulled over ideas to fix it.

After a quick discussion, Sophia packed her books and the paper into her bag,  
and then proceeded to assault him with an exuberant hug. "Thank you so  
much, Mikael-sama!" she crowed, then tore out of his classroom, skipping  
and making more noise than he thought was really suitable.

"Saa…it seems you're quite popular," a smoky, intimately familiar  
voice remarked.

Mikael didn't even look up to see Raphael, whom he was quite sure was  
lounging insouciantly in the doorway. Raphael had a marked fondness for that  
pose, it seemed. "I wouldn't know about that, Raphael-sama. Most of them  
seem comatose at this time of the morning."

"She didn't. Quite excitable, isn't she? Ne, Mikael…I wonder why it is  
you don't protest such an enthusiastic embrace from her, but let my hands do  
even just a little bit of wandering here at School and you get all 'dame, dame!'  
on me." Raphael imitated his protestations with a breathy little catch in  
his voice.

Mikael looked up, furiously wishing away the slow blush creeping over his  
cheeks. "She is a student, and you are incorrigible - that's why." He  
snapped his satchel shut and slid past Raphael out into the hall. "Gomen,  
Raphael-sama, but my class is over and I have work to do. I'll see you for the  
staff meeting, ne?" He walked away, without awaiting a reply.

"Incorrigible, 'Kael?"

Mikael groaned inwardly, as he had really been hoping that the one-winged  
angel wouldn't follow him. Fat chance, it seemed. "Raphael-sama, I really  
do have things to do!" he protested.

"You certainly do," the older angel purred before pushing him in  
through a door.

Faculty storage room. Why hadn't he been paying attention to the direction he  
was walking? "Raphael-sama, we can't," Mikael said firmly. "Don't  
you have things you need to be doing?"

A cat-with-the-cream smile lit up the handsome features of Raphael's face.  
"Hai," he confirmed, sauntering toward Mikael, letting his jacket fall  
to the floor.

The aqua-haired angel started to feel a bit panicked. "Dame,  
Raphael-sama! What if somebody comes in looking for toner for the copy  
machine?!"

"I locked the door," Raphael said softly, his voice a teasing  
sing-song. His fingers seized the top of Mikael's shirt, quickly undoing the  
first button before Mikael batted his hands away.

"You know as well as I do that there are security cameras all over the  
School! Do you really want to chance Gabriel-sama catching us?"

"Disabled," Raphael said cheerfully, trapping his hapless lover in  
the corner by a table. He quickly silenced any further protestations by kissing  
Mikael into submission.

Not that this was a long drawn-out process, Mikael thought hazily as  
Raphael's tongue danced with his own. It usually only took a couple of really  
good kisses before he was completely amenable to just about anything Raphael  
wanted. He sighed in pleasure as Raphael sucked on his earlobe, nibbling on it  
and whispering naughty little suggestions. "Ne, Mi-ka-e-ru…I've been  
wanted you since you gave me the cold shoulder in the shower this morning."

"We were going to be late," Mikael reminded him, the statement  
followed by a little gasp as Raphael slipped his shirt off and teased one flat  
nipple into a hard little bud.

Raphael's eyes glittered with the very familiar look of wanting. "I can  
excuse you, you know," he murmured against Mikael's mouth, licking and  
nibbling gently at the full, pouty lips. His hands roamed over Mikael's back,  
grasping his bottom and pulling him up against him.

Mikael leaned forward to kiss the spot where shoulder and neck met, making  
Raphael clutch him closer. "Right," he remarked, his sardonic tone  
buffered by the haze of desire. "I can just see it now - 'Sorry, class, I  
was so busy having my wicked way with your teacher that we completely lost track  
of time." He punctured the statement by sucking firmly on Raphael's neck, hard  
enough to leave a mark.

"I wish," Raphael groaned. "Speaking of having my wicked way  
with you…" He hoisted Mikael up onto the table next to them, quickly  
divesting the younger angel of his trousers.

Mikael gingerly laid back onto the wooden table, mindful of his wings.  
Raphael's hands ran over his thighs, skirting teasingly around his erection  
before pulling Mikael's legs up to rest on his shoulders.

Reality once again reared its ugly head. "Raphael-sama!"

"Now what?" the one-winged angel asked, his voice tinged with  
irritation.

"We don't have any…" Mikael trailed off as a slick finger probed  
his entrance.

"Stop thinking, Mikael," Raphael instructed hoarsely, little wisps  
of hair already matted against his forehead with sweat.

"H-h-hai," Mikael murmured as Raphael removed his finger and slid  
inside, letting Mikael enjoy the sense of fullness for just a moment before  
beginning a slow, rhythmic thrusting. Mikael was distantly aware that the rumors  
of "the Professor boinking the new teacher in the storage room" would  
no longer be rumors but fact, but then Raphael wrapped his hand around Mikael's  
erection, stroking him in counterpoint. Then it was far too much effort to think  
even distantly as Raphael changed his angle and began thrusting even faster,  
still stroking him and he thought maybe that the gasping moans were his and the  
desperate groans were Raphael's and he couldn't think couldn't think couldn't  
breathe and -

Bliss.

Raphael shuddered above him, sighing and then sliding Mikael's legs off his  
shoulders so he could lean forward and press their bodies together. They panted  
together, trying to catch their breath, their arms wrapped around each other.  
"I think," Raphael whispered after awhile, "that I'm glad your  
little wiggle in the shower this morning inspired me to go to such  
lengths."

Dreamy and sated, Mikael smiled lazily. "It figures that the only time  
you do any sort of work is when you want to get me out of my clothes as fast as  
possible."

"I do work. Real work," he protested, all offended pride. "I  
am the Professor, you know." A mischievous smile crossed his face.  
"This isn't work - you're easy," he teased him.

Mikael swatted him half-heartedly. "Keep talking and you can cook dinner  
all this week," he mock threatened sleepily.

"Promises, promises," Raphael murmured, gently pulling out of him.  
"Unfortunately, this morning interlude is officially over. We have a staff  
meeting in five minutes, if you'll recall." He retrieved their clothes from  
the floor and was already dressing when Mikael turned onto his side, yawning.

"Can't you excuse me from that?" Mikael asked. Staff meetings were  
boredom incarnate, and he could think of far better uses for his time without  
any trouble at all.

Raphael smacked him on the bottom. "Sore wa dame da yo. We really have  
to be there, Mikael, so get dressed. Now."

When it became clear that no amount of pouting would get him out of the  
dreaded staff meeting, Mikael reluctantly cleaned himself up and redressed.

"I'm never going to be able to concentrate," he complained as he  
walked alongside Raphael to the meeting room.

"Me neither. I'm already thinking of all the things I want to do to you  
while you're trying to cook dinner," Raphael responded cheerfully.

"Absolutely not. You haven't made dinner in ages - it's definitely your  
turn."

"But Mikael, you cook so much better than I do!"

"That's not the point, Raphael-sama! Mou! If I had a splinter in my  
back, would you feel guilty enough to cook?"

"But you don't."

"But what if I did?"

"But you don't."

   


* * *

__

Mikael stirred in his sleep, rolling over to sling an arm over Raphael's  
chest. "Back t'sleep," he mumbled, snuggling deeper into the warmth of  
the covers.

An amused snort sounded in his mind. &lt;_Wakey-wakey, sweetheart. This is  
the voice of the Most Holy, and I have a job for you._&gt;

Mikael opened one cautious eye, peering around the room. He yawned slightly  
and noted that Raphael was snoring lightly, something he did occasionally when  
sleeping on his stomach.

&lt;_That's better. Get dressed._&gt;

Mikael narrowly resisted the urge to pull the blankets more securely around  
him. &lt;_How do you know I'm not dressed?_&gt; he shot back, now slightly  
more alert.

A long-suffering sigh. &lt;_If you're in bed with Raphael, you're nude as a  
newborn babe. With the addition of a little raspberry-flavored lube, I'm sure.  
But never mind that. Now get dressed and come to the Tower. And no, don't wake  
Raphael. Leave a note, tell him something came up and you had to go see Suriel  
and you'll be back by dinnertime tomorrow._&gt;

Rather than risk his face actually combusting into flames, Mikael did what he  
was told. In the depths of the night, there were few out to see one lone angel  
fly up to the soaring heights of the Tower. The fearsome Guardians with their  
swords of flame had apparently been warned, as they let him approach the twelve  
windows at the apex of the Tower with no resistance. Touching down onto the wide  
sill of a window, a pair of arms caught him before he went tumbling into the  
room.

"There we are," the Metatron murmured. "The air currents up  
here can be quite tricky. I usually take the stairs, myself."

Mikael looked down into the grey depths of the Metatron's eyes and became  
suddenly very conscious that the arms of the Voice of the Most Holy were clasped  
snugly around his hips. Embarrassed at the impropriety, he hurriedly broke away  
and jumped down to the floor. Kneeling in front of the Metatron, he breathed,  
"My apologies, Metatron-sama."

A small, musical laugh floated through the air. "So proper. I can see  
why Raphael fell so hard for you. But stand, Mikael - I can't in good faith  
watch you kneel in front of me. I'm only the Voice." Slender, girlish hands  
drew him up off his knees and Mikael got his first good look at the Metatron. He  
had Talked to Most Holy before, but having been nearly comatose, he remembered  
nothing of the Metatron. Shoulder-length slate-grey hair was pulled up into a  
ponytail, wisps escaping haphazardly to frame his startlingly young-looking  
face. A gauzy shirt, open and leaving nothing to the imagination, was matched  
with flowing trousers tucked into boots. Hardly the sort of ensemble he expected  
from the most important Angel in Heaven.

"You were expecting bejeweled robes or something? Do you know how heavy  
the damn things are?"

Mikael jerked in surprise. "Metatron-sama, are you a full telepath? I  
didn't think such a thing was possible!" His mind worked over the concept  
furiously. Angels could engage in closed-waved, quick send-and-receive  
telepathy, but usually only within in a certain distance.

The Metatron winced. "Sorry. I forget myself sometimes. To answer your  
question, no, I'm not actually a full telepath. The extra information is just a  
perk, as it were." He gestured Mikael to have a seat on a sofa by a window,  
and immediately sat down right beside him, their thighs touching. Mikael felt  
more than a little uncomfortable, but then the Metatron seized his face with  
those slender hands, the violet-polished nails winking in the moonlight.  
"Relax," he commanded quietly.

Mikael relaxed quickly, feeling almost boneless, and slumped comfortably in  
the corner of the couch. Dazedly he wondered if the Metatron's eyes always  
looked silver and not grey. "I need you to retrieve something for Me,"  
he asked, his voice no longer definitively male, but an androgynous alto.

"Anything," Mikael responded dreamily, feeling warm and loved and  
safe and comforted and blissful.

"It's not just anything, darling," the Voice told him, the  
Metatron's hand caressing his cheeks gently. "My beloved Omael seeks to  
renounce his impartiality. He claims his key to My realm was stolen. But We know  
this is not so."

"Why can't you just let him go if he wants, then?" Mikael asked,  
feeling sort of hazy. It seemed like a perfectly logical conclusion to him.

A sad, sad sigh escaped the Metatron's lips. "Because I love him.  
Because I love you all. And I know that Omael is not well, and if he stays there  
too long…"

"What?" Mikael demanded languorously, his eyes half-closed.

"He will be no more. I do not wish for that to happened, but Omael  
doesn't see the danger. And My Fallen One seeks to challenge My authority once  
again, by sacrificing Omael. We cannot permit this. You will go to the Realm of  
the Unfaithful and retrieve Omael and his golden key," the Voice intoned  
gently.

"Hai, Otou-sama," Mikael responded softly, smiling. The Metatron  
jerked in startlement or something else.

"I love you, Mikael. Come back safe," the Voice wished. The  
Metatron leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead. And then the  
Metatron's voice was one more a pleasant tenor as he clutched his own head and  
yelled, "FUCK!"

Mikael snapped back to alertness. "Metatron-sama, are you alright?"

The Metatron curled into a little ball on the couch, still holding his head.  
"Ow ow ow, FUCK. Yes, I'm just fine. PEACHY. Damn it, I just HATE it when  
You do that!" he addressed the ceiling, scowling and still swearing  
furiously. Suddenly his eyes crossed and then he shuddered, but when he stood up  
his eyes were no longer clouded with pain. "Just so we have no secrets, I  
don't like that much either."

Mikael stretched out a hesitant hand, but the Metatron was still addressing  
the ceiling. "I do TOO like some things! Like caffeine! And sex! But since  
the latter isn't really an option, I guess I'll have to go with the coffee.  
Alright, alright, keep your shirt on, I'm getting to it." He took a deep  
breath and turned to Mikael.

An image floated into Mikael's mind. It was of a dimly lit, ornate door. &lt;_Go  
there. Get in and get out, quickly, no dawdling. Haul Omael's ass back here, and  
make sure he has all his keys._&gt;

"I thought his key to heaven was stolen!" Mikael protested.

&lt;_He's lying. Check under the pillow. Now go._&gt;

   


* * *

Mikael stood in front of the door. He had no fear before, but now…here…

He had to admit he was shaking. The darkness around him shifted this way and  
that, hideous eyes blinking at him, horrible groaning echoing throughout the  
hall. He put out one trembling hand on the doorknob, turned, and….

"Usually it's polite to knock on a bedchamber door," a silky voice  
intoned. An angel with no halo, but beautiful, almost iridescent wings sat in  
the middle of a large bed, putting the finishing touches on the beribboned  
braids in his hair. This, Mikael concluded, could only be Omael.

Mikael stuttered a few times, and then finally said, "He wants you to  
come back."

Omael looked miserable, and cast a glance at the sun-bronzed body lying  
asleep next to him. "I know," he whispered. "I just wanted to see  
if He really cared."

"He does," Mikael whispered back, feeling horribly guilty as he  
watched crystalline tears course down Omael's cheeks.

"If He really loves me, then why won't He let me go? Why must we  
continue with this charade?" Omael asked sadly, playing with one braid with  
nervous fingers.

"Come back," Mikael said softly. He crossed the room and stared at  
Omael for a long moment, then reached under one pillow until his fingers grasped  
a cool metallic object. The golden key to the Gates.

Omael looked at him with wide eyes. "How did you know? And why have I  
never seen you before? I know most everyone - who would He send to…" he  
trailed off, his eyes wide. "Oh…Most Holy!" he cried, clutching  
Mikael and sobbing quietly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'll come back  
now."

"I'm not - " Mikael started to protest, before Omael covered his  
lips with a desperate kiss. _He thinks I'm Most Holy??_ Mikael wondered,  
beyond confused. Then he felt Omael take up the key for Earth, and followed him  
there and back to Heaven.

   


* * *

Mikael climbed the steps to the Tower, but paused outside the Metatron's door  
as he heard voices.

"How COULD you?!!! Stealing him out from under me in the middle of the  
night, without so much as by your leave, sending him to Hell to retrieve a  
hopelessly paranoid angel from the arms of the Morning Star?!! What in the name  
of Most Holy were you thinking?" Raphael yelled furiously.

"I told him to leave you a note," the Metatron said calmly.

"Riiiight," Raphael drawled sarcastically. "Going to see  
Suriel. I'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb to believe that one. And don't  
change the subject!"

"I'm not. And it was His idea. Mikael's the only one who doesn't need  
keys, and no else except Omael can go to Hell. Therefore it was imperative that  
Mikael be the one to go."

Raphael's voice was low and frightened now. "What if something happens?  
What if Omael just _loses_ it or the Morning Star decides not to give him  
up without a fight?"

Mikael couldn't stand to hear Raphael like that. He pushed open the door  
softly. &lt;_Tadaima, Raphael-sama._&gt;

Raphael spun around, took several long strides, and swept him up in a  
desperate embrace. "Don't" - he kissed him soundly - "ever"  
\- kiss - "do" - kiss - "that again!" -kiss - "I MEAN  
it, Mikael."

"He told me too," Mikael said simply. "I had to go."

Raphael still had that worried creased in his forehead. But slowly, a  
grudging understanding swept over his features. "It's really hard to think  
when He talks to you, isn't it?"

Mikael nodded, smiling gently. His eyes fluttered shut as Raphael leaned in  
for another kiss, this one deep and slow, managing to convey that Mikael was  
safe, that Raphael had been frantic with worry, but they were together now and  
everything was going to be okay.

The Metatron huffed, stirring a few strands of his slate-grey hair.  
"Alright, that's enough. There will be NO make-up sex in my office if I'm  
not involved."

Mikael and Raphael turned to the hapless secretary of Most Holy with twin  
devilish smiles.

"Get out, get out, GET OUT!" the Metatron howled in despair,  
pointing at the door.

 

* * *

Mikael started scrubbing Raphael's back, mindful of the place where the wing  
joined skin. His tongue stuck out a little as he concentrated in making soapy  
little designs on Raphael's skin, and the older angel fair purred under the  
attention. "Ne, Raphael-sama," he ventured, rinsing off his back.  
"Did you know this whole time?"

Raphael leaned back in the bubble bath so that his head was tucked below  
Mikael's chin. "Know? I suspected, but I didn't know. And I most certainly  
didn't expect Most Holy to take advantage of your little quirks. He surprises us  
all - even the Metatron, I'd wager. But with graffiti, but no other overt  
hostility, it was clear that someone was just testing the waters. Omael has  
always been the prize in the tug of war between us and the Unfaithful, and I  
didn't see why this time should be any different." He didn't voice to  
Mikael that he had some strong suspicions on the mysterious someone in bed with  
Omael in hell, and who had been behind the whole plot in the first place.

"Well, it's over and done with," Mikael said with neat finality,  
moving on to Raphael's shoulders and upper chest, blowing a stray bubble out of  
his face.

"Ne, Mikael…"

"Hmm?"

"I think my tummy is dirty."

"I'm getting to it. There. Better?"

"No, no, I think the problem is really down farther."

"Do you remember how much water we spilled last time?"

"Shame, Mikael! Get your mind out of the gutter!"

"Gomen ne."

Pause. "You'll note that I didn't fill the bathtub as high this  
time."

"Sou ka. Ne, Raphael-sama…"

"Nani?"

"I think maybe my stomach is dirty too."

"Hmmm. Better?"

"No, I think we have the same problem, Raphael-sama."

"Then let's take care of it together, shall we?"

   


* * *


	3. Raphael-sama

It was Monday morning, and Raphael had one hell of a horrible hangover.

He really shouldn't have had quite so much to drink. But he had been at the  
Metatron's Palace, sipping champagne and sampling chilled fruit, chatting  
companionably with the Voice of Most Holy, and then the next thing he knew, he'd  
had one glass too many. It probably was an act of God that he was even here this  
morning.

Someone knocked on the door and Raphael clutched at his head. It seemed so  
bloody loud this morning. "It's open!" he called, massaging his  
temples in a fruitless attempt to dull his pounding headache.

The door opened to reveal an angel he had seen very few times. "Good  
afternoon, Professor," Sandalphon said quietly. "If I might have a  
moment of your time?"

I'd rather dunk my head in a tub of ice cold water if it's all the same to  
you, Raphael thought sourly. He eased out of his chair to clear off a seat for  
Sandalphon, depositing a pile of clutter atop a different pile of clutter.  
"Have a seat."

Sandalphon did, and arranged his muted robes carefully before speaking.  
"You are aware, Professor, that I am tutoring an angel student?"

Well, duh. I spent last night with your twin, which means both you and Uriel  
were the prime topics of conversation. But you wouldn't know that, because when  
was the last time you stopped by the Palace for a cup of tea and a chat?  
"Please, call me Raphael. And yes, I am. What can I do for you?"

Sandalphon's face was careful, composed. "My student wishes to finish  
his last year here at the Angel School." And you don't like that, Raphael  
reasoned out inside, tapping his fingers against his desk. Not that you'd ever  
say so. "What brought this on?"

Sandalphon's lips thinned. Ah-ha, Raphael thought. You definitely don't like  
this - not one tiny bit. "This is his wish. I think it is an unwise idea -  
he's been completely isolated his whole life, and he's completely unprepared for  
the School. However..." Sandalphon trailed off, his expression guarded.

"However?" Raphael echoed, waiting for the catch.

The twins couldn't be more different in appearance and mannerisms. Sandalphon  
was quiet, serious, and thought things through to a degree that was often  
startling. "I will allow it on one condition. Mikael needs more individual  
attention than he can get as a member of a class. Therefore, if you will agree  
to mentor him, I will release him to the School."

Raphael looked up into the unsettling glints of Sandalphon's copper eyes,  
resisting the urge to scrub at his own in his exhaustion. "I have no  
problem with that. I'm sure I could talk one of the other teachers into tutoring  
him."

"No," Sandalphon said evenly. "It has to be you or I won't  
permit it."

Raphael frowned. His duties as Professor kept him quite busy, but he was  
intrigued by this special case. Anyone who wanted to go to the School badly  
enough to force the issue with Sandalphon needed all the help they could get.  
"Alright. I'll mentor him. He can move in with me this weekend."

Sandalphon gave him a measured look of disapproval. "I think that would  
be too much for him. He's used to being alone."

And whose fault is that, Raphael wondered before heaving a sigh. "You're  
being awfully picky about this whole thing," he complained. "I'll see  
what I can arrange with Ardouisur - I know her guest apartment is empty right  
now."

"That would be suitable," Sandalphon said, sounding satisfied at  
last.

Raphael stood, and offered the other angel his hand because it seemed the  
proper thing to do. "Then I will see him at the beginning of the  
term,"

he said, shaking Sandalphon's hand firmly, and the Metatron's twin left him  
in hungover peace.

Raphael needed aspirin or a lobotomy. He wasn't sure that it mattered which.

   


* * *

Raphael hesitantly made his way through Ardouisur's garden, the scent of  
daffodils and tulips making the air fragrant. Pansies and roses decorated the  
landscape and Raphael felt like an intruder in a sea of loveliness.

He felt like an intruder, period - it had been so long since he had lain in  
the flowerbeds with Ardouisur. He looked around, trying to spot one of the more  
enigmatic angels in Heaven.

Ah. There she was. A female angel in a gossamer gown knelt besides a bed of  
lilies, carefully cutting a few and placing them in the basket beside her. He  
walked up slowly behind her and then bent to embrace her from behind.  
"Guess who," he murmured.

"I never guess. You're late, anyway," she said, her voice musical,  
before pouncing on him and knocking him flat on his back.

"Um, Ari, can we talk for a minute? I have a favor to ask, and I -  
" She silenced him with a kiss and by Most Holy, she was warm and soft and  
curvy, and he'd forgotten what an addiction she was. Ardouisur was the angel of  
new mothers and infants, specializing in helping women survive childbirth as  
well as helping them get pregnant in the first place. Granted, she had a pretty  
unusual and unorthodox method as to the last, but despite its bizarreness, she  
never suffered more than the usual collection of tall tales that went with most  
of the older angels.

You had to admire a woman who would jump the nearest man in order to answer  
the prayers of an infertile human.

Some time later, they both redressed themselves and Ari invited him in for  
tea. When she was answering prayers, she was never much for cuddling. She seemed  
to view it very distinctly as business and not pleasure. Their little episode  
among the lilies had been business, but a long time ago it had been pleasure as  
well. Things change. Ari had understood.

She handed him a delicate teacup, and Raphael thought he recognized the  
painted flowers on it as the work of Suriel. Beautiful inside and out,  
everything Suriel touched seemed to reflect himself. "You wanted to ask of  
me a favor?" she asked without preamble.

Raphael took as small sip of the scalding tea before setting his cup down.  
"As a matter of fact, I do. Sandalphon has asked me to mentor a student  
he's been privately tutoring, and the boy needs a place to stay."

Ardouisur narrowed her dark violet eyes. "Why isn't he staying with  
you?"

Raphael wrinkled his nose. "It seems Mikael has been awfully...isolated.  
Sandalphon seems to think it would be better for him to have a sanctuary...you  
know, somewhere to retreat to at the end of the day."

She sipped her tea thoughtfully. "Not because Sandalphon thinks you  
can't keep your hands to yourself?"

"Ari!" Raphael exclaimed, genuinely offended. "Mikael is a my  
student."

She looked a little contrite. "Sorry, just checking. Considering how  
much time you spend with the Metatron, it wouldn't be surprising if Sandalphon  
thought you just as frivolous."

Raphael huffed and bit into a biscuit vengefully. "There's a difference  
between frivolity and plain immorality."

Ari leaned forward and patted his hand. "I know, dear. I think the  
apartment out in the lilies will do nicely, don't you? And try the raspberry  
tart, it's from Suriel..."

   


* * *

"Would Mikael care to report to the Professor's office? That's  
Mi-ka-e-l, Mikael," Raphael called over the loudspeaker. It was the first  
day of the new term and he wanted to meet the student he would be mentoring  
before their class together.

He shuffled through some papers on his desk, looking in vain for something  
Gabriel had wanted completed by this afternoon, except he had no idea where the  
elusive paperwork had gotten to.

"This place...is an absolute freaking pit," he announced to no one  
in particular. With all the stacks of paper, it was no wonder he couldn't find a  
damn thing. And when he cleaned, he couldn't find anything either. He sighed.  
Can't win.

He wanted a particular passage out of The Principia Discordia for his class  
this afternoon, but he had to find it first. After much hunting, he discovered  
it on the very top shelf. Why it was there wasn't quite clear, but maybe he had  
thought it funny to put it out of alphabetical order and out of reach after  
reading it. That sounded like something he would do. Maybe if he stood on his  
chair, he could reach it.

Not quite. He planted a foot on his desk, trying to get a little more height.  
He used his wing as counterbalance and his fingers were just centimeters away...

"Ano?" came a timid voice and the sound of the door clicking shut.

Raphael whipped his head around to see an aqua-haired boy. "Ah, you must  
be—" he started, and then he yelped as the chair rolled out from  
underneath him, sending himself and a pile of books to the floor with a noisy  
thump. He swore inwardly as he picked himself up, and walked around the desk to  
meet his new student.

The boy's eyes were screwed shut. Raphael took the liberty of removing the  
open book from his student's head and slowly those eyes opened. They were a nice  
gold color, Raphael noted absently. His student was staring straight at his  
chest, not even making eye contact. Cripes. Knowing Sandalphon, this boy was  
probably very sheltered.

And he really had a most becoming blush. "You okay?" Raphael asked  
kindly, smiling in welcome. Just his luck that his office imploded on the kid's  
first visit. "That was a bit of a mess, but that's just the way things are  
around here at times." He paused, gauging his student's response, or in  
this case, lack thereof. "So, what can I do for you?"

The boy tensed up and pasted a small, polite smile on his face. They were  
going to have to work on that. "My name's Mikael. I was called to meet the  
Professor." Mikael spoke very politely, a linguistic copy of Sandalphon.

Raphael hummed to himself and stepped back to perch on the edge of his desk.  
"So you're Mikael," he said, mostly to himself.

Mikael was still staring at him. Raphael briefly wondered what was so  
entrancing. Admittedly, he wasn't as muscular as some of the soldiers, but he  
still worked out with Azrael regularly. He resisted the impulse to suck in his  
tummy.

Mikael snapped out of whatever trip he'd been on. "Um, I beg your  
pardon?" he asked, his voice cracking. Poor boy. Puberty in heaven wasn't  
any better than its earthly equivalent.

Raphael rolled his eyes in amusement. "So you're Mikael," he  
repeated. "I'm the Professor, actually."

Mikael blinked in apparent disbelief. "Um. Excuse me?"

"I'm the Professor. But please, call me Raphael, since we're going to  
know each other so well," he said warmly, determined to start out on the  
right foot.

"What? I..." Mikael trailed off. He was looking a little pale,  
Raphael noted with concern. Maybe the boy was ill. Or maybe Sandalphon had just  
neglected to give him any pertinent information in retaliation for wanting to  
attend School.

"Aa. I'm your mentor. Didn't Sandalphon even tell you-- oh." The  
boy was definitely looking faint. Too many shocks in one day, he supposed.  
"Ah. Have a seat, Mikael."

Mikael murmured an agreement and sat, folding his hands in his lap. Actually,  
the primness was sort of charming. Then Mikael's head snapped up. "You. You  
wrote the Student Handbook."

Raphael wondered where the boy had gotten a hold of one. Probably smuggled it  
into Sandalphon's house. "I did, didn't I?" he said. "That was a  
long time ago." A very long time ago, indeed. Back when he Talked to Most  
Holy about the need for a School to train all the angel candidates.

Mikael mumbled and blushed again. Really, quite charming. Raphael advanced  
and held out his hand, saying, "Well. It's been a pleasure to make your  
acquaintance, Mikael, whether or not you'd known I'd be your mentor." He  
clasped Mikael's hand in his own, determined to hold on until the boy smiled  
back – a real smile, this time.

Mikael said, "Pleased to meet you," before promptly fainting in his  
arms.

Oh dear. Raphael scooped up the boy and settled him on the couch, retrieving  
a damp washcloth to place on Mikael's forehead. Definitely out cold. The poor  
thing probably had more excitement today than in his sixteen years of life.

Great. His student had passed out, and he still couldn't find Gabriel's  
paperwork. He was going to actually have to clean. Bother.

Sometime later, Mikael's eyelids fluttered open and he started to sit up.  
"Ah, ah, don't sit up too fast," Raphael warned.

Mikael removed the washcloth, and blushed furiously. "I'm sorry to be a  
nuisance," he murmured. "I-- fainted, didn't I?"

"Aa," Raphael said warmly. "But just look at your day. I think  
you had good reason to. Now, can you stand? Ari'll have my head if I keep you  
out past curfew." As she had reminded him about ten times in the past week.

Mikael nodded, rose slowly. "I feel fine now. I'm sorry,  
Raphael-sama."

As if it were the boy's fault! "You don't need to be sorry,"  
Raphael said softly, gently. "I'll see you tomorrow morning, na?"

Mikael's eyes widened. "Yes," he replied, giving Raphael a small,  
shy smile that transformed him utterly.

Charming, indeed.

   


* * *

Raphael sat down on the window seat and patted the space next to him.  
"Have a seat, Mikael," he invited, rolling the fluid sounds of his  
student's name.

Mikael stepped forward, a little uncertain in the new environment of  
Raphael's house. Raphael was willing to bet that Mikael was wishing for  
something familiar to cling to - anything at all.

Raphael brushed his fingers over the strings of his burnished and well-loved  
guitar. "Ne, Mikael - what do you do for fun?" He had his doubts on  
Sandalphon's knowledge of the concept.

Mikael sat down next to him, his attention riveted on Raphael's guitar. Pale,  
slender fingers wound through aqua bangs. "Gymnastics...reading. I play the  
piano a little."

Raphael smiled warmly. "So you know a little about music. Ever played  
the guitar before?" he asked, noting Mikael's obvious interest.

Mikael shook his head, and Raphael scooted over so that their hips and thighs  
were pressed together. "Here," Raphael said, handing over the guitar.  
"Put your left hand here," - he covered Mikael's hand with his own and  
moved it to the neck of the guitar - "And rest your right hand here,"

he continued, moving Mikael's hand to the guitar body.

Mikael was blushing bright under the cover of his bangs, and Raphael realized  
that, most likely, no one had ever been this close. How sad, Raphael thought. Is  
it too late to show you how nice it is to touch someone else? He had his arm  
around the boy and his hands atop Mikael's. "Go ahead," Raphael urged.  
"Give it a try." Sandalphon might believe in decorum and a stiff upper  
lip, but Raphael was of the opinion that everyone could use a little personal  
contact.

Mikael strummed the guitar hesitantly. "What do I do with the  
strings?" he asked after a moment.

Raphael smiled at his student's curiosity. "You can change chords like  
this," he said, closing Mikael's fingers down over a beginning chord.  
"Hear the difference?"

Mikael was entranced - so much so, that he seemed to have forgotten their  
position. Then, all of a sudden, Mikael stiffened, and Raphael allowed himself a  
small sigh. "No, no, you can't play if you don't relax." He scooted  
even closer so that Mikael was practically in his lap, and heard his student's  
squeak of surprise. "Okay. Deep breath, relax," he crooned softly.  
Slowly, Mikael obeyed, melting into his arms like warmed honey.

The warmth was nice. It was just plain good to feel another person against  
you, to feel the steady rhythm of their heart. Most of Mikael's lessons, Raphael  
knew, wouldn't come out of a book. The boy's blushing determination was also  
quite attractive. Raphael taught him some basic chords, which Mikael had a good  
firm grasp on by the end of the evening.

Raphael noticed the time with a little surprised. "My - it's late, isn't  
it?"

Mikael looked at the clock in panic. "I'm sorry to have taken up so much  
of your evening, Raphael-sama. I know you must have work to do, I didn't notice  
at all - "

"I had fun," Raphael said, interrupting him and daring to hug him  
quickly, guitar and all.

Mikael looked at his shoes, his cheeks flushing a pale rose. "I...yes.  
Yes, I did."

Raphael nodded approvingly. "Well, you know, practice makes perfect. How  
about we have dinner tomorrow here and we can continue your lessons?"  
Raphael asked.

Mikael looked over his shoulder with a sharp indrawn breath. "If...if  
that's okay. I don't want to be a bother."

"No bother at all," Raphael said firmly. Whoever taught you that  
you were, he wondered with a little anger. "I want for us to be friends,  
Mikael," he continued.

He would have had to been impossibly blind to miss the widening of Mikael's  
eyes, like limpid pools of melting gold.

   


* * *

Raphael carefully lit the last of the candles, which bathed his living room  
in a soft golden light. It was just perfect.

The doorbell rang right on time. "Evening," Raphael greeted Mikael  
cheerfully. Mikael smiled shyly and held out a paper bag.

"I mentioned to Ardouisur that we were having lasagna tonight, and she  
gave this to me to bring," Mikael said by way of explanation. It was now  
two months into the term, and Raphael invited Mikael over for dinner on the  
nights when he wasn't busy doing things for the School.

Raphael opened the bag and sniffed appreciatively, retaining a light grip on  
Mikael's wrists as he did so. "Mmm. I know what this is. Her Italian bread  
tastes even better than it smells. Come on in, Mikael."

Mikael toed off his shoes just inside the door, which reminded Raphael  
strongly of his Renaissance in Japan. The boy really was adorable, padding over  
to the kitchen in his stocking feet in with such an earnest expression on his  
face.

They ate dinner at a leisurely pace, and Raphael tried to draw Mikael out  
with questions about school. "So how do you like Cassiel's class?"

Mikael swallowed a mouthful of food hastily in his enthusiasm. "It's  
wonderful. He talked about Hadrian's Wall in England, and..." Mikael  
actually prattled on for several minutes, presumably about Cassiel's class, and  
Raphael sat and watched him, his chin resting on an open palm.

Kawaii, Raphael thought dreamily.

Mikael stopped talking quite suddenly. "I'm sorry, I must be boring  
you."

"Not at all," Raphael assured him, holding those golden eyes with  
his own.

After dinner, Raphael ushered Mikael in to the candlelit living room. Mikael  
found his way to their usual spot on the window seat.  
"Ano...Raphael-sama?"

"Aa?" Raphael said, collecting his guitar from its stand and  
joining Mikael.

Mikael looked around the room. "Why the candles?"

Because they remind me of your eyes, Raphael thought about saying. "You  
need to learn to play by touch as well as by sight. Dim lighting will help you  
learn to play not by eye, but by ear." He touched the pale pink curve of  
Mikael's ear with one fingertip, and felt his student shiver against him.

I want him, Raphael realized. Out loud, he said, "Play the chords I  
taught you last time." His fingers were still lightly placed over Mikael's,  
correcting when memory faltered.

In the near dark, Raphael talked quietly of music theory and thought about  
wanting someone, really wanting someone again.

"Raphael-sama?" Mikael questioned softly.

The candles had burned down. Raphael shook himself from his reverie.  
"Where does the time go?" Raphael asked, more of himself than Mikael.  
He rose and flipped on the light switch. Mikael winced from the light and set  
the guitar aside, and Raphael saw a flash of red against pale fingers.

"Mikael, let me see your hands," he instructed.

Mikael looked puzzled for a moment, but obediently held out his hands. As  
Raphael had expected, Mikael's fingertips were raw and blistered in some places.  
Wordlessly, Raphael led him to the washroom and rinsed Mikael's hands in cool  
water, wincing in sympathy. Mikael was so young. Just sixteen years old, for  
heaven's sake. What was he doing, driving himself crazy over a child? Mikael  
hissed in pain as Raphael bandaged his hands. "I'm sorry," Raphael  
said softly, meaning it. "I wish it didn't hurt."

Mikael watched him, and Raphael noticed with faint pleasure that Mikael was  
not, in fact, insensitive to this unexpected desire. But did he want it?

"If you really want something, is it worth it?"

Raphael tried to contain his shock. Did Mikael just ask... "Excuse  
me?"

"If you really want something, is the pain worth it?" Mikael  
restated.

Still a loaded question. And he had one in return – does wanting your  
student make you an immoral, corrupt person? What if...they wanted you too? Was  
it quite so wrong then? Was it wrong at all? "Sometimes."

   


* * *

Mikael was beginning to catch on. The narrowed golden eyes had held suspicion  
for weeks, but it was only today, as Raphael led the class in a merry rendition  
of "Allouette" that the suspicion hardened into certainty. Raphael  
dismissed class and turned to half-heartedly wipe the chalking of the French  
lyrics off the board, waiting and then hearing those precise footsteps reaching  
the front of the classroom.

"Raphael-sama."

The Professor fought down a silly grin and continued to nonchalantly clean  
the board. "Aa," he murmured, not turning around.

"Raphael-sama, may I ask the purpose of today's lesson?" Mikael  
asked politely, though Raphael thought the boy's teeth must be clenched from the  
tightness of his voice.

Raphael finally turned. "The purpose of today's lesson is the same as  
the purpose of all lessons in this class."

Oh, but Mikael was shaking, with confusion and anger and most likely a myriad  
of other emotions. He was really just too adorable with those pouting lips and  
those flashing golden eyes. Raphael watched his student bring himself under  
control before saying, "It doesn't make any sense to me, Raphael-sama. I  
apologize for my stupidity." The aqua head was bowed, and the shoulders  
were slumped in resignation.

Raphael reached out and tipped Mikael's chin up with a knuckle. "Which  
is why you're so smart," he said softly, hating to hear such  
self-deprecation from his student. Golden eyes blinked in confusion. They were  
warm and striking like dancing lamplight, and simply breathtaking.

Mikael's back was to the desk, so he had nowhere to go and had no choice but  
to endure Raphael's proximity. If he was panicking or anxious, he concealed it  
well. "If you become an angel, you won't have all the answers,"  
Raphael began, his hand dropping from Mikael's chin to his shoulder, his touch  
lingering. "Sometimes you'll be given assignments you won't understand at  
all, but your obedience is what counts, not your comprehension of the meaning  
behind. The simplest, ultimate purpose of an angel is to do the will of Most  
Holy, not to question it. So you have to learn to take the nonsensical in  
stride, and to learn when it's important to understand and when it's better that  
you not know at all."

Mikael's brow furrowed as he mulled that over. "Can you give me an  
example, Raphael- sama?"

Raphael smiled brightly. "Indeed," he said cheerfully, and leaned  
forward to brush his lips against the softness of Mikael's cheek. "Now,  
what was that?"

Mikael was wide-eyed with shock. "Nonsensical?"

Raphael nodded in approval. And having had one teasing taste, he knew he  
wanted more. So this was perfect - if Mikael welcomed him, so much the better.  
If not, he could safely dismiss it as an object lesson, without making his  
student overly uncomfortable. So Raphael leaned down again, angling his head to  
capture Mikael's lips in gentle kiss. And while he had meant for it to be short,  
sweet, and to the point, it became readily apparent that he wasn't the only one  
with some less-than-professional intentions.

Mikael's hands were fisted in the material of his jacket, probably  
unconsciously, preventing him from moving away.

Raphael opened his eyes to see that Mikael was blushing, as he thought the  
boy would be, but there was a startled comprehension in those golden eyes.

"So which was that?" Mikael asked in barely a whisper.

Raphael swallowed slowly. "This one...it's important that you  
understand. I...care for you a great deal, Mikael. I want to...but only if you  
want to, you don't have to - "

He trailed off and stole another kiss before gently detaching from Mikael.  
"Think about it."

   


* * *

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon, and Raphael was puttering around his  
workroom, hanging up herbs to dry. In the living room, he could hear Mikael  
going through some finger exercises on the electric guitar. He hummed absently  
to himself as he began to grind together the ingredients for an analgesic  
ointment.

He was still humming a few moments later when he realized that Mikael had  
shifted from warm-ups to a song. A song Raphael had never taught him, and that  
he couldn't have found, since the only copy of the song was in the possession  
of...Ardouisur. He had given it to her as a parting gift, a plea to remain  
friends.

The song really didn't have a name. He had written it after the bitterness of  
Belial's betrayal, and after he and Ari had found temporary solace in each  
other's arms before moving on.

It was a song of loneliness, of grief for love lost. And it tugged sharply on  
Raphael's heart. He paused in the doorway to the living room, his heart aching  
to remember that dreadful time anew.

Then something remarkable happened. Mikael shifted key, and sped up the  
melody from the mournful adagio to a sprightly allegro, and the guitar sang  
sweet and song underneath his fingers, straight to Raphael's heart.

Is it okay to love you so much?

   


* * *

Raphael was close to Mikael on the window seat, keeping a eye on Mikael's  
fingering while half-heartedly working on his laptop. He was trying to bullshit  
his way out of an expense report when he shivered suddenly. He blinked and  
thought he must have imagined it. But there it was again, a ghostly touch down  
the side of his neck. He shot a look at Mikael, but the boy appeared to be  
faithfully working away at a new song, with the usual stumbling that new  
material brings. Raphael scratched his head, shrugged, and resolutely turned  
back to the report. Until he felt another there-but-not-there touch, glossing  
over his chest. And then it hit him.

It really was Mikael. It would have been funny, except that the boy would  
have been humiliated if he had said so. His telepathic abilities must have  
started to kick in...and unconsciously, Mikael was projecting his curiosity so  
strongly that it was manifesting in phantom touch.

Sometimes Raphael thought before he acted, and sometimes he just did things.  
So he kissed Mikael. No short peck on the cheek...he pathed Mikael a leisurely  
meeting of lips, sensations of velvet, sweet like mandarin oranges.

Mikael looked up in shock. His fingers stuttered to a halt on the guitar,

and a blush rose in his cheeks. _It's not a difficult thing_ Raphael  
thought. _You can project words and images in addition to touch._

Mikael's mental voice was thoroughly embarrassed. _I'm sorry,  
Raphael-sama...I didn't mean to...that is, I..._

So Raphael decided that that was enough beating around the bush. His heart  
beat faster as he constructed an image of them half dressed, Mikael splayed out  
underneath him on the window seat, their hands laced together and Raphael's lips  
trailing down the side of Mikael's throat. The image, the desire, Raphael's own  
convinced opinion that it would feel so very good - all of that, he sent to  
Mikael's mind. _I want that. I want you._

Carefully, purposefully, Raphael removed the guitar from Mikael's grip. He  
tilted Mikael's chin up, feeling the boy's nervous breath against his face. _If  
this feels good_ \- here he licked Mikael's ear mentally - _Imagine what the  
real thing feels like._

Stuttering images flashed in his mind, of kisses and touches, raw desire in  
snapshots of emotion. Raphael kissed Mikael then, as he had wanted to for Most  
Holy only knows how long, with tender and insistent need, devouring Mikael's  
little sounds of want.

He pushed away clothing underneath his fingertips, wanting only the silken  
heat of flesh, skin against skin. Too many barriers between them...Mikael gasped  
helplessly as Raphael's lips found his ear, tongue tracing the pale curve, teeth  
nibbling gently on the lobe. "I've wanted you," Raphael husked into  
Mikael's ear, the lavender scent from the boy's hair wafting about him. His  
fingers undid the boy's school tie, unbuttoned the shirt with its starched,  
proper collar. "Wanted you for so long..." Finally the hated clothing  
was gone and he was free to explore the delicate arch of Mikael's neck, tasting  
slightly salty skin with his tongue even as his hands roamed over Mikael's back  
and hips. _You can touch me too_ Raphael reassured him. _Touch me and see  
what happens...I might do this for you..._ An image of himself, crying out  
hoarsely, shamelessly. Mikael shuddered in his arms and his lips dared a brief  
caress of the top of Raphael's ear, so conveniently within reach. Raphael moaned  
at the touch of satin lips and arched to the touch, his fingers dancing over the  
hardened nubs of Mikael's nipples.

_You can touch me like I touch you_ Raphael said, voice wrapped in smoky  
velvet. _However you want...anything you want._

An image of their first meeting leaked into his mind...only he saw himself  
from Mikael's perspective. Saw the blushing admiration of his chest, the  
concentration on his bared stomach. _So touch me_ he crooned. _You don't  
have to just look anymore. Touch me._

Long, nimble fingers that Raphael had first admired as they played the guitar  
now splayed over his chest, dipping under the jacket that Raphael had nearly  
forgotten about. He groaned as Mikael teased his nipples to hardness with a  
light, exploring touch, and then pushed the boy down onto the window seat and  
followed, fitting his body atop his student's.

_I think we're overdressed, don't you?_ he purred. _Much better to be  
like this._ An image of their naked forms entangled, darkened skin against  
ivory, one white wing covering them, halos touching.

He didn't even have to wait for Mikael's nonverbal urgent assent. So he  
pulled off his jacket and divested Mikael of his shirt, even pulling off his two  
belts so that his trousers fluttered loose about his hips.

Raphael kissed and licked his way down Mikael's chest, stopping at the tender  
skin just below the navel. _You've pleased yourself before, haven't you?_

he asked. Mikael flushed red, even deeper than before. _Oh, darling, no shame  
in that. None at all. Because it feels good, doesn't it?_ He licked roughly  
at the hollow of the navel. _It's okay to feel good. It's good to feel good. I  
was just going to ask...any preferences?_ Mikael remained mute except for his  
gasping breaths, and Raphael smiled against his skin. _Hmmm...then why don't I  
introduce you to something that you can't do for yourself?_

Raphael slid down the zipper of Mikael's trousers, slowly and deliberately.  
Then, starting at the waistband, he kissed a trail down the skin as he pulled  
both trousers and underwear away. _Ever wondered?_ he asked silkily,  
meeting Mikael's eyes, hot with need. _Ever wanted to know what this would  
feel like?_ An image of himself going down on Mikael. _It looks so good...I  
can't wait to taste._ Mikael cried out above him from the thought alone.

Mikael moaned at the new sensation, and Raphael's mind was awash with images  
and thoughts. Flashes of them sitting together at guitar lessons, memories of  
warmth and hidden desire. A visual of Mikael alone in his bed, fingers straying  
down his body, thoughts only of Raphael. Unprovoked blushes explained, the  
heady, raw hormonal urges inflaming Raphael further.

And soon, wonderful tension that Raphael nearly felt as his own, Mikael's  
gasping cries and sobs stoking his own inner heat, and they were connected and  
it was beautiful..._So good...it can always be this good, it can be even  
better. All for you, always for you..._ And then...unthinking rapture.

Mikael was spread out before him, a picture study in erotic art with his hair  
mussed and a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. Blissed out and profoundly relaxed  
and just...gorgeous. And Raphael needed him, really needed him, right now. He  
pulled himself up Mikael's body and settled himself against the boy's hip even  
as he gazed into Mikael's exhausted eyes. _So worth waiting for_ Raphael  
thought to him, setting a rhythm and moaning at the delicious friction. _Waited...years...centuries...so  
long...to find you._ Moments more where he couldn't manage coherent thought,  
wrapped up in the sensations of slick skin and heat and sweat and the exquisite  
final joining with someone he...loved.

_So worth it_ he gasped finally, shuddering and collapsing in Mikael's  
arms.

   


* * *

Mikael was crying.

Raphael was startled out of late afternoon drowsiness when he glanced over  
and saw tears making careful tracks down Mikael's face. No change in breathing,  
no sobbing – just quiet tears.

"It doesn't matter," Mikael said softly.

Alarmed, Raphael walked swiftly across the room and sat down beside him.  
"Mikael?" he said uncertainly, pulling a handkerchief out of his  
pocket and offering it.

Mikael ignored it, and Raphael felt a panicked worry close his throat.

Then he realized what Mikael held tightly in one hand. His Assignment.  
"It doesn't matter how well I do. Because for Noelle to become an angel,  
she has to choose to do so, right?"

Raphael bit his lip. Because that wasn't really the point, but he wasn't  
allowed to correct Mikael. He wasn't allowed to reassure him, and the  
realization ached somewhere deep inside.

He moved to embrace Mikael, and for a moment the boy resisted.  
"Raphael-sama," Mikael said in choked anguish, before flinging his  
arms around Raphael's neck. "Raphael-sama…what if she says no?"

Raphael held him tight and kissed his cheeks, the tears salty on Raphael's  
tongue. "It's going to be okay, Mikael," he said, willing himself to  
believe, wanting so badly to tell Mikael how they could make it okay, but  
knowing that he couldn't.

Mikael sobbed harder, and his hand came up to touch his own halo.

His hand came away with it, and then the halo dropped lifeless to the ground  
from nerveless fingers.

A tear slid down Raphael's cheek. Oh, Most Holy. They could do this. And as  
far as Raphael was concerned, they were going to do it together. He would watch  
Mikael, and help where he could.

Because he just couldn't bear the thought of being apart forever.

   


* * *

"Raphael-sama!" Mikael called after him, his voice echoing in the  
thin winter air.

Raphael smiled and walked in place. "Hmmm?" he called back,  
narrowly restraining himself from swinging his battered suitcase like a joyful  
schoolboy.

"Where are you going?" Mikael asked. Heavens, the boy sounded quite  
panicked. Excellent.

Raphael still didn't turn around. "I was thinking of going back to  
heaven. I've used up my paid vacation time, and I really don't like the  
cold..." That was all true. Gabriel would kick his ass if he didn't get  
back, and snow was really better when you were someplace - preferably with  
someone - warm.

"That's how you've always left me, to be all alone." Mikael sounded  
quite defeated and more than a little bitter. Then Mikael burst out, "Take  
me, please take me with you!" His former student's lovely tenor wavered and  
cracked on the last note. "Raphael-sama!"

Raphael continued to walk.

"I..I..as an angel student, I want to learn all over again!" Mikael  
said formally, his speech pitched in the politest terms possible. Raphael had  
never quite considered manners to be sexy before meeting Mikael.

"As a student?" Raphael asked, struggling to contain his internal  
glee.

"Yes."

"Really?" Raphael asked, drifting backward toward Mikael.

"Yes," Mikael repeated, his tone determined.

"Really, truly?"

"Yes."

"Really, truly, dearly?" Raphael teased.

"Yes," Mikael repeated, with no sign of impatience.

"No can do!" Raphael sang in delight, moving his form ahead of  
Mikael, back into the light from the streetlamp.

"Raphael-sama!"

Raphael held up a parchment with Gabriel and the Metatron's seals.  
"You've passed your assignment as a teacher." He was so proud of  
Mikael, he could just burst.

Mikael's jaw was hanging open in a rather silly manner that was vaguely  
reminiscent of the carp in Ardouisur's gardens. "Teacher?" he  
repeated, expression frozen.

"A teacher at the Angel School," Raphael clarified gently.

"Huh?" Mikael said, visibly fighting disbelief. "It couldn't  
be...all this time, it wasn't a test for Noelle...? It was a test...for  
me?" Bingo, Raphael thought. He shifted himself so he was standing  
back-to-back with Mikael. "Nothing ever goes as planned. For you, or for  
me...nor for Noelle," he said softly, pressing against Mikael's back,  
smiling and unable to stop. _I love you,_ he whispered to Mikael,  
mind-to-mind, putting his soul into the phrase. Mikael seemed to melt against  
him, physically and mentally.

"What's the most important thing to you right now?" Raphael prodded  
gently. Warmth, affection, desire and devotion seeped into his mind slowly,  
shyly. He waved a little flower at Mikael and whispered tenderly, "Just  
follow your feelings."

"R-Raphael-sama..." Mikael said, his voice soft and a little high  
with embarrassment.

Raphael half-turned. "I'm going to teach you a lot of hands-on thing  
from now on," he promised, and what a glorious promise it was! He laughed  
softly and blushed a little, in both anticipation and sheer happiness.

Mikael twitched as Raphael stroked his former student's cheek with the  
flower. "Raphael-sama, once we return to the Angel School..."

"We can spend time alone doing a couple things inside the faculty  
storage room..." Raphael interrupted, whispering huskily into Mikael's ear.

"Stop joking!" Mikael exclaimed, mortified.

"I'm not joking. We'll be together forever," Raphael told him,  
looking forward to every second for the rest of eternity. Mikael turned in his  
embrace to face him.

"Raphael-sama," Mikael said, a half-hearted warning.

Raphael clicked off the streetlight, pulled out his Heaven key, and giggled a  
little. "You know you like it," he said sweetly, nipping at Mikael's  
neck and groping him shamelessly.

"Raphael-sama!" Mikael embraced him almost fiercely, and they  
kissed as they ascended to heaven. Back home, together, for always.

 


	4. Mikael

"Mikael?"

"Yes, Sandalphon-sama?"

"Tea?"

Mikael looked up from the textbook and smiled honestly at his mentor.  
"Yes, thank you."

Muted robes swished as the angel moved away. From the kitchen came the sound  
of clinking glasses, and that was muted too. Everything was muted in  
Sandalphon's abode.

All muted and soft.

Mikael still wasn't sure what had made Sandalphon desire the quiet so much.  
But the angel just came across as one of those pillars of calm, and either the  
quiet caused that, or that had caused the quiet. Sandalphon let his silver hair  
fall straight down his back, wore soft and dark robes in a world where robes  
simply weren't worn much any more, talked in a quiet, calming voice. His hands  
could weave a spell through the air as he talked, though, and he seemed to know _everything_.

Or. Almost everything.

He smiled brightly as Sandalphon set the tea down beside him. As the angel  
headed into the living room, away from Mikael's room, Mikael's smile faded into  
a determined expression.

There were some things Sandalphon didn't know. COULDN'T know.

Quickly, silently, he slipped his textbook away so that it stopped covering  
the Angel School Student Handbook.

If Sandalphon knew everything, they wouldn't need a School, would they?

   


* * *

"More, Mikael?"

Mikael shook his head, smiling politely at his equally-polite tutor. "No  
thank you, Sandalphon-sama. I'm very full."

Nodding, eyes hooded, Sandalphon cleared the table. "Tea?"

"Yes, please."

Tea was, as always, served. "How did your studies go today,  
Mikael?" Sandalphon asked. There was something intense about his voice, and  
Mikael hesitated a moment before answering.

"They went very well, Sandalphon-sama. I was reading the chapter on  
mental hypnotism. I can't particularly understand how _I_ could do such a  
thing, but it makes sense in context."

Sandalphon nodded. "Anything else?"

"I might need some practice in it if I'm to protect Noelle."  
Mikael's lips twisted a little even as he said it. Protect Noelle, protect  
Noelle, protect Noelle. It's all he remembered hearing since he was old enough  
to talk. He didn't even know who Noelle _was_, just that everyone said it  
was important to protect her. It would probably have something to do with his  
final exam, though who knew what that would be about, either?

But. It was clearly his job to learn how to protect this girl, and so he  
would. Mostly.

Fingers stroked through silver hair and Sandalphon looked tired as he nodded.  
"Yes. Soon, I'll teach it to you."

"Aa."

Silence fell, and Mikael had the burning urge to raise the subject. He  
glanced up at Sandalphon and saw the angel turn away.

The chance was missed.

   


* * *

Two days passed before Mikael worked up the courage to try. They were sitting  
in the main room, in the dark, by the flickering firelight, and Sandalphon was,  
as agreed, teaching him the practical uses of hypnosis.

"It's not in the hands," Sandalphon said. "That's just a  
focus. It's in the voice. Properly, used, your voice can touch parts of the mind  
that the receiver of the technique doesn't even know is--"

"Sandalphon-sama."

It took Mikael a moment of silence after that, a moment of looking into the  
metallic-gold eyes, before he realized that he'd interrupted Sandalphon. Heat  
swept into his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Sandalphon-sama! I didn't mean  
to--"

Sandalphon raised a hand, smiled a little. "It's all right, Mikael.  
Clearly, you have something on your mind."

He nodded, tried to find an appropriate way to say it, and then gave up and  
blurted, "I want to attend the school."

Sandalphon's lips turned slowly downward. "Mikael. Trust me a little.  
The school would _not_ be a good place for someone as special as you."

Special, special. They always TOLD him that. They never explained, not  
really, anyway. Just that he was special, and he'd understand some day.

"But Sandalphon-sama! There are so many more teachers, I'd HAVE to learn  
more! I'm almost at my examination period, and I know NOTHING. I mean," he  
hastily amended, "You've taught me so much, but there MUST be a limit.  
Other teachers know other things. I just... I just want..."

Sandalphon sighed, heavily. "I see. I'll have to think about it. Go to  
bed, Mikael."

It wasn't _fair_. He never was able to choose ANYTHING. "But  
Sandalphon-sama--"

"My fingers, Mikael." He held them up, and it was so incongruous  
that Mikael couldn't help but look, blinking. "One," Sandalphon said  
softly. "Two. Three."

Sleep.

   


* * *

It had been like betrayal, and Mikael didn't want to look at Sandalphon  
during breakfast. He managed to get through buttered bread without saying  
anything, until Sandalphon asked,

"Tea, Mikael?"

And Mikael, unable to stop himself, answered with his automatic, "Yes,  
please, Sandalphon-sama," then kicked himself mentally. _I am SO stupid._

Sandalphon couldn't seem to hide a smile completely. "Please." He  
poured Mikael some tea. "You'll be starting school tomorrow," he said.

"I've already arranged things with your mentor. I'm sure you'll be  
introduced to him tomorrow. You only have two classes, though. Just as well,  
considering your background -- they're very good teachers."

Mikael stared, shocked. "You... I... Sandalphon-sama, I didn't... thank  
you, I..." the world was spinning, practically spinning. He'd expected to  
fight the whole way and woke up to find that everything was decided for him.  
"I..."

"Please, Mikael," Sandalphon said with a note of amusement.  
"Your tea is getting cold."

   


* * *

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale.

Exhale.

"Keep going, Mikael," Mikael muttered to himself, bright smile  
fixed on his face. "You can do this. Look, it's easy."

Inhale. Exhale.

It was the noise, really. The noise was everywhere, some kind of living  
entity in its own way. There was no place he could go where it was completely  
silent. No matter where he was, there was always the sound of people talking.  
Distantly or overwhelmingly.

Usually the later.

And then, there was--

He stumbled as a taller boy shouldered past him with a called, "Excuse  
me!" And all of a sudden, the awareness rose over him again. That he was  
drowning in people, all brushing against him, touching him -- bodies,  
personalities, _souls_ impinging on him, on his space, on--

He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe, he--

The coolness of the wall he'd pushed against helped to centre him, and he  
closed his eyes.

Mikael shut the world out.

As best he could, anyway.

He concentrated on his breathing, on his mental shielding, on walls in  
general. On anything but--

"Hey. You okay?"

Mikael opened his eyes to see the worried face of a student he knew had been  
in that morning's class with Cassiel-sama. But, for the life of him, he couldn't  
remember the boy's name. Feeling vaguely like a rabbit in the headlights, Mikael  
just stared, not knowing what to say.

"Shit, uh, do you want me to get--"

Quickly, he remembered his manners and forced himself to stand taller, to  
smile politely. "I'm fine. Thank you very much."

Straight-backed, head up, Mikael continued down the hall, lips moving  
silently.

_You can do this, Mikael. Keep going, Mikael. Stay strong._

Inhale. Exhale.

 

* * *

"Would Mikael care to report to the Professor's office? That's  
Mi-ka-e-l, Mikael."

Mikael's head jerked up. The Professor's office?! What had he done? He didn't  
think he'd done anything differently from any of the other students -- but what  
did he know of student protocol? He HAD memorized the entire student handbook,  
but who knew how outdated it might be?

He swallowed, hard, and concentrated on stopping his knees from turning to  
mush as he walked.

And, of course, he got lost and ended up having to grab a passing student to  
ask for directions.

Finally outside the office door, Mikael closed his eyes, took a deep breath,  
and put on his Polite-And-Suave-Student Persona.

Then pushed the door open.

There was a tall, well-built angel balanced precariously on a swiveling  
office chair, one foot on that, the other planted on the Professor's desk in a  
clearly vain attempt to keep himself steady. His single wing was thrashing to  
allow him to stay upright while he stretched up, reaching for a book on the top  
shelf that his fingertips were just barely brushing.

More uncertain now, Mikael clung to his Persona with the strength of a  
drowning sailor. He let the door click shut behind him. "Ano..."

The angel's head whipped around. "Ah, you must be--"

Unfortunately, whoever Mikael must be was cut off as the chair chose that  
moment to roll away. A quick shout, books flew, and Mikael squeezed his eyes  
shut, not daring to watch the inevitable.

He opened them again when he felt a hand pluck one of the fallen books off  
his head. And then his eyes opened much WIDER, because what was directly in his  
line of sight was a broad expanse of sleekly muscled chest. Mikael blinked  
rapidly then shot his gaze up, knowing, just KNOWING that the heat in his cheeks  
was visibly glowing. It was very hard to tear his eyes away from that chest.

"You okay?" the angel asked cheerfully, dusky lips stretched wide,  
amethyst eyes smiling down. "That was a bit of a mess, but that's just the  
way things are around here at times." He tossed his head, ruffling bed-head  
further. "So, what can I do for you?"

That brought back both Mikael's Persona and his terror. Polite, calm smile  
firmly in place, he murmured, "My name's Mikael. I was called to meet the  
Professor."

"Aaaaaaah." The angel took a few steps back and slid to half-sit on  
the edge of the Professor's desk. Mikael realized that the older man actually  
DID have a shirt -- or rather, jacket -- but it really didn't count because it  
was completely open, baring his chest from shoulders to just below his navel  
where loose pants were barely held up by a double belt.

It was an impressive chest, Mikael thought inanely. Not overdone but gentle  
while strong and -- and the angel was talking. "Um, I beg your  
pardon?" Mikael said quickly, voice jumping half an octave.

The angel rolled his eyes and Mikael shrunk back -- first day away from  
Sandalphon and he was ALREADY messing things up -- "So you're Mikael."  
But the voice didn't sound irritated -- rather, amused, a smokey, husky tone.  
"I'm the Professor, actually."

Mikael blinked. "Um. Excuse me?" He snuck another look and  
continued to see just a rumpled, partially naked, undignified one-winged angel.

"I'm the Professor. But please, call me Raphael, since we're going to  
know each other so well."

The Persona fell away entirely. "What? I--" His mind was whirling.  
It wasn't making any sense. It wasn't making--

"Aa. I'm your mentor. Didn't Sandalphon even tell you-- oh. Ah. Have a  
seat, Mikael."

Since Mikael's knees threatened not to hold him, he nodded. "I, uh, yes.  
I think I will." He sat, quickly, staring fixedly at his own hands.

This wasn't the Professor. This COULDN'T be the Professor. The Professor  
would be smartly dressed, mature, quiet -- but. Why would Raphael-sama feel the  
need to lie? And the name was familiar... oh.

"You." Mikael's head rose, jerkily. "You wrote the Student  
Handbook."

"I did, didn't I?" Raphael mused. "That was a while ago."

"I, uh. Oh." Mikael KNEW his face was burning. AGAIN.

Raphael was close again, hand out. "Well. It's been a pleasure to make  
your acquaintance, Mikael, whether or not you'd known I'd be your mentor."

Slowly, even then thinking _there must be something wrong_, Mikael  
reached out and clasped Raphael's hand.

Found it warm and solid around his.

"Pleased to meet you," he said, meeting amethyst eyes, wondering  
why Raphael was holding his hand so long, so hot --

And then Raphael smiled and, unable to stop himself from smiling back, Mikael  
felt the bottom of his world begin to drop out from under him.

   


* * *

Mikael came to in a darkened room that he had difficulty recognizing as the  
Professor's Office, as it had apparently been cleaned while he had--

_I passed out_, he realized, horribly embarrassed. He started to sit up,  
seeing visions of running away before anyone saw him there.

"Ah, ah, don't sit up too fast," Raphael's husky tenor admonished  
from nearby.

Mikael took the wet washcloth off his forehead and just BLUSHED. "I'm  
sorry to be a nuisance," he murmured. "I-- fainted, didn't I?" He  
wasn't sure of the tone of his voice even as he said it.

"Aa," Raphael said warmly. "But just look at your day. I think  
you had good reason to. Now, can you stand? Ari'll have my head if I keep you  
out past curfew."

Mikael nodded, rose slowly. "I feel fine now." It was so...  
"I'm sorry, Raphael-sama." Something he would probably NEVER live  
down, he knew...

"You don't need to be sorry," Raphael said softly, so softly Mikael  
almost didn't hear it properly. "I'll see you tomorrow, na?" There was  
an undertone, some kind of desire. To actually see him.

Eyes widened, and then Mikael nodded. "Yes," he said, and smiled  
just a little.

   


* * *

Mikael found he really, really enjoyed Cassiel's classes. The angel wasn't  
one of those teachers who won you over with smiles and good humour -- not like  
Raphael-sama, at all. No, he was soft-spoken, almost timid-seeming, distracted,  
often looking as if he'd break into tears at any given moment.

And he knew history.

Particularly British history, though he seemed to know a bit of everything.  
It was... terribly exciting.

And, of course, there was the fact that he talked so quietly that everyone  
had to be dead silent for him to be heard. That was a nice little benefit.

Mikael took reams of notes, those first few weeks in the school.

"And," Cassiel murmured, his soft whisper barely reaching the back  
of the room, "we have to remember that when the Romans first arrived, there  
was _nobody_ to be friendly with them. The Celtic tribes of the region  
already had gods and goddesses that suited their needs, and had an entirely  
different style of trade than the Romans had worked out. Of course, the Romans  
had a more powerful military, and had spent centuries working out a method of  
organized fighting--"

His pen just flew across the page. Just flew.

   


* * *

It had only been four days before Raphael had begun to teach Mikael the  
guitar. It was... nice. Mikael really didn't have any words for it. With  
Sandalphon, his piano lessons had always been mandatory, part of understanding  
the classics. Here, Raphael was teaching him music for the sake of playing  
music. For, Mikael suspected, the sake of having something to do together.

He'd been shocked, the first time Raphael had put his arms around him to  
correct his student's fingerings. Had been shocked when he'd been nestled back  
into Raphael's chest, into the warmth that fairly oozed off of the Professor.  
Had been shocked by the inappropriateness of it, of a teacher actually touching  
a student in a way that wasn't casual. Had been shocked by the fact that Raphael  
hadn't seemed to know how inappropriate it was. Had been shocked by liking it so  
much, liking being held _so_ much.

"I want to be friends with you, Mikael."

So inappropriate, so inappropriate.

Mikael's face was warm, his chest was warm. He was so, so warm.

   


* * *

Three weeks had passed. Mikael kept his eyes on the board as Raphael finished  
chalking in a floor plan of the Sistine Chapel then turned, dusting his hands  
off. "Now class, who can name the woman the Shining Genji first married in  
Murasaki Shikibu's 'Tale of Genji'?"

As usual, the question seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with the  
lesson on the board, but at least Mikael knew the answer. His hand shot up.

"Yes, Mikael?"

"She was never named in the actual text but was known by the moniker  
Aoi, for the flower. It is she that the 'Heartvine' chapter is named  
after."

Raphael beamed at him, lavender eyes approving and warm. "Very good,  
Mikael."

"You get a gold star," someone muttered mockingly while someone  
else made kissing noises. "Teacher's pet."

Mikael stared at his hands, trying to fight a blush down, knowing how his  
complexion showed it. All of a sudden, he could feel the weight of eyes on him,  
knew that everyone was staring at him, thinking about him. And not in a nice way  
\-- he could feel that, too. Practically HEAR their _Raphael-sama mentors him.  
Of course he gets special treatment. He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't deserve--_

"Alexandrian, isn't it?" Raphael called, and a boy shot to his  
feet. "Ah, good. Since you seem to have quite the mouth on you today,  
perhaps you wouldn't mind singing the Spanish national anthem for the class?  
Backward?"

Stumbling, clearly knowing better than to argue, Alexandrian sang some  
butchery that had the class in stitches. Red-faced and fuming, the boy returned  
to his seat and Raphael turned and smiled.

"Now, that reminds me. Can anyone name the three most famous perverted  
emperors of Rome? You'll be writing a paper on the evolution of the Roman Empire  
for Monday."

Mikael stared at his desk.

He knew the answer. He MORE than knew it, and staring at his fists wasn't  
getting the right answers out.

And he could feel Alexandrian staring at him, hating him. If he didn't answer  
it, then--

But he knew the answer. It wasn't fair, he knew the answer.

No, he wouldn't let his mark be dependant on anyone but himself, for any  
reason.

Face fierce, he put his hand up again.

   


* * *

It came back to haunt him the next day as he was walking to Raphael's for  
guitar practice. He didn't even see Alexandrian before he was grabbed and shoved  
up against a tree.

Rough bark pushing into his back, other boy's fists bunched in his shirt,  
Mikael forced himself to breathe shallowly, felt for a centre of calm -- _You're  
doing fine, Mikael_ \-- and said, one eyebrow raised inquisitively, "Can  
I help you?"

"Always so polite, so perfect, huh, Mikael?" Alexandrian was  
trembling with barely restrained fury. "What the hell are you doing in one  
of Raphael-sama's classes? He's your fucking mentor -- just ask him at home and  
don't make the REST of us look at you."

Inhale. Exhale. Mikael didn't allow the anger to rise, didn't allow his face  
to change. "I'm a student," he explained, in the most polite terms he  
could find. "So I attend classes."

"We KNOW what you're up to," Alexandrian spat. "And I just  
wanted to tell you that we're not going to put up with you showing us up  
anymore."

Mikael smiled tightly. "Then study."

And it hurt as Alexandrian's fist encountered his cheek -- even though it was  
clear the other boy had pulled his punch at the last moment, it still hurt. From  
his jaw, up his head, back into his neck.

"Next time," Alexandrian said, "I--"

Mikael whipped his head around and, for once, ignored that spot of calm.  
"Watch my fingers," he said, and put out his hand as Sandalphon had  
taught him. "One, two, three."

The taller boy folded, unconscious, and Mikael just stared at him for a  
moment, uncertain of what to feel.

Inhale. Exhale.

THERE was the calm. _You did well, Mikael. Keep it up._

And he turned and kept walking.

   


* * *

Raphael's eyes widened and sharpened when he opened the door and Mikael kept  
his own face calm, trying not to respond to the near-comedic panic on his  
mentor's face.

"Mikael!" Raphael stepped forward, raising a hand to touch Mikael's  
cheek. Callused fingers brushed over the bruising skin, a sudden shock of pain  
that sent shivers down his spine. Shivers that changed quickly into something  
else as Raphael's thumb drifted lower, resting on his chin, rubbing lightly over  
Mikael's lower lip.

It was like a snake curling in his lower belly, like a tightening of his  
throat down through his heart and navel to his groin. The pounding of his  
heartbeat and the rushing of his blood were loud, were, for a minute, the only  
things he could hear as the dizzying tingling rush ran the gamut of his body.  
And it was also like comfort, so much like comfort that he felt tears welling up  
and, for a moment, feared he'd cry, unable to stop the trembling of his bottom  
lip against Raphael's thumb.

Unable to stop the ragged breaths panting out between his lips, they ghosted  
over Raphael's skin.

But of course, it couldn't be comfort, because all Raphael-sama should have  
for him was a sense of duty to him, as Sandalphon-sama had.

A deep breath, Raphael's eyes large and hurt. "Oh, Mikael. What happened  
to you?"

"An accident with a tree," Mikael murmured, searching for that calm  
again, finding it elusive. Always elusive where Raphael-sama was concerned, it  
seemed.

Raphael obviously wasn't having any of the excuse. "A tree in the shape  
of a fist? Mikael, if anyone's hurting you, you have to come to me--"

_But that was EXACTLY the problem!_ Mikael wanted to shout. He could  
come to Raphael, could ALWAYS come to Raphael. And that was exactly the problem,  
in the other students' eyes. "I'm fine, Raphael-sama."

The angel's eyes hardened. "Mikael..."

Mikael's chin rose automatically and he felt the anger swell, so rare for it  
to do so again so soon. He pushed it down but knew his own eyes are at least as  
hard as Raphael's, that his lips were as tight. "I can take care of myself,  
Raphael-sama. Are we going to play?"

Raphael stared at him a moment longer, seeming distracted, then nodded  
shortly. "Yes. Yes, come in, Mikael. And if this ever happens again, tell  
me. You can't become an angel through lies."

That stung, suddenly and unexpectedly, and Mikael bowed his head. "Yes,  
Raphael-sama."

   


* * *

That evening, playing the guitar, Mikael found himself watching Raphael  
through his bangs. There was a look on the angel's face as he sat, amethyst eyes  
closed, just listening, that Mikael was hard placed to identify.

Wistfulness.

Longing.

Perhaps even-- Mikael stopped himself, stumbling over a fingering and  
frowning at that. No, no, impossible, utterly impossible. Besides, what did he  
know of--

of--

Want?

No, he knew nothing. He knew nothing but the instrument under his fingers,  
but Raphael's sharp gaze on him from across the room.

When had the Professor stopped holding him while they played? Why?

And... when had it stopped being inappropriate for it to happen?

   


* * *

Alexandrian didn't bother him again, physically. The names, though, the names  
kept coming at him, often so quietly he couldn't make out who'd called him what.

It didn't matter.

Since when had words had power?

   


* * *

The bread had been something Ardouisur had thought of, smiling and handing it  
to him on his way out of the door. Mikael had smiled back, brilliantly... he  
loved Ardouisur, simply loved her. She was so thoughtful and kind and.

Acted like he'd heard a mother acted.

It didn't matter, that much. More importantly, he respected her.

"Take this with you," Ardouisur had said. "It's never a good  
date if you don't bring something to it too. THAT much, I can tell you about  
Raphael."

"Date?" he asked the door she'd just closed. "Eh?"

It took him a moment after that to realize that she hadn't meant an era type  
of date. Another moment for the flush to hit him, madly. "We're NOT!"  
he shouted at the closed door, and thought he heard laughter in response.

"We're not," he said again, more quietly, face in full flush. That  
was. It was.

The other students talked about their dates, sometimes even in class. In the  
hallway, all the time. About kisses and touching and first, second, third base.  
About the burning weight of desire.

And of them, Mikael only knew the last...

No. Of course. Raphael-sama was his TEACHER. They would never, ever date.

That in mind, he headed off to Raphael's house with only a faint tinge of his  
blush left.

Raphael answered the door with a smile and a cheerful, "Evening."

Mikael smiled shyly back, feeling it hit him _again_, as _always_,  
and murmured something about Ardouisur and lasagna. Raphael-sama looked,  
so...so...

He followed Raphael inside and was met with the question, "So, how do  
you like Cassiel's class?"

THAT he didn't need encouragement to talk about! They'd been studying  
Hadrian's Wall, and it was all TERRIBLY interesting. He began to explain the  
history -- despite the fact that Raphael PROBABLY knew it already -- and then  
Cassiel's theories about it.. and stopped, realizing that Raphael was staring at  
him, smiling and nodding.

"I'm sorry," he said, trying to push the hurt down. "I must be  
boring you..." and he wanted to believe it, wanted to believe that's what  
it was, but Raphael's amethyst eyes were sweet on his, and...

"Not at all," Raphael said, smiling.

Raphael seemed to be waiting for something, throughout dinner, and Mikael  
wasn't too surprised when Raphael practically leapt up after dinner, and said,  
"Follow me!"

Mikael did, but stopped when they entered the living room. The lights were  
off and everything was bathed in golden light. Soft and sensual. Mikael thought  
again of candlelit dinners and blushed. Quickly, before Raphael could notice the  
blush, he headed to his usual spot in the window seat. "Um," he  
murmured. "Raphael...sama?"

"Yeah?" Raphael asked, retrieving his guitar.

He had to ask, had to know, the question was pushing through his throat --  
"Why the candles?"

Raphael seemed to hesitate for a moment, long enough for Mikael to almost,  
nearly, grow alarmed. Then he smiled. "You need to learn to play by touch  
as well as by sight. Dim lighting will help you learn to play not by eye, but by  
ear." He leaned forward, far too close as always, and ran his finger  
teasingly over the rim of Mikael's ear.

And oh. OH.

He hadn't expected something as small as that, something as silly as that, to  
feel so good, to send a buzzing thrum through his throat and to his groin the  
way it did. Unable to speak, unwilling to make any noise, he just shivered,  
unsure of his own facial expression, and then hoped Raphael hadn't noticed.

Raphael's hands moved to cover Mikael's, as always, and he was back again,  
inexplicably back, Mikael's body nestled against his, as if he'd never stopped.  
"Play the chords I taught you last time."

Mikael did so, desperate to focus on something, anything but that body so  
tight behind him, anything... noted Raphael's corrections, but didn't really...  
this part of the lesson was going on so much longer than usual. The candles were  
almost burned down, and they hadn't gone any farther than chords. Mikael  
stopped, confused. Raphael began to talk of music theory, things Mikael had  
already known from his piano lessons. "Raphael-sama?" he questioned,  
not knowing whether or not Raphael had forgotten.

The Professor started, then laughed, his chest thrumming against Mikael's  
back. "Where does the time go?" he murmured. All business, it seemed  
suddenly, he rose and threw the light switch on. Mikael blinked, wincing as  
light flooded the room, starting a mild headache behind his eyes. Careful not to  
damage it, he set the guitar to one side.

Raphael had gone still. "Mikael. Let me see your hands."

Uncertain, Mikael held his hands out to Raphael and only then did he notice  
that the finger tips were red and blistered.

And once he noticed it, they started to hurt. Not badly, but constantly.  
Sharply. Even the air seemed to be touching them bruising. So sensitive.

Wordlessly, Raphael led him to the bathroom, washed Mikael's hands. The water  
hurt, but cold water made them feel a little bit better, and then Raphael turned  
and returned with salve, applied it, carefully bandaged them, and there was  
something intense in his gaze, something as if he was feeling Mikael's pain.  
Hurt, and...

_Oh, Most Holy!_ Mikael thought, and breathed. Inhaled. Exhaled. Forced  
the panic down. Remembered the touch of Raphael's finger on his ear, remembered  
the feel of his body, and a moment later Mikael realized they were staring at  
each other.

Afraid, suddenly, of what would happen if Raphael-sama got the first word in,  
Mikael hastened to ask the thing foremost in his mind. "If you really want  
something, is it worth it?"

Raphael blinked, seemingly shaken out of a revere. "Excuse me?"

Quickly, he changed it so he was talking about the guitar and his fingers.  
"If you really want something, is the pain worth it?"

His teacher seemed to think about it, then smiled, smiled in a way that made  
Mikael wonder how obvious he'd been, after all. "Sometimes."

   


* * *

Mikael cared about Raphael deeply. He was just starting to be able to admit  
that. He thought he might even...

But however much he cared about Raphael, there were times his teacher just  
infuriated him.

Actually, most classes.

Like this one. Raphael had convinced the class to sing Allouette. The lyrics  
were scrawled across the board in Raphael's stylized handwriting, so they were  
barely legible, even assuming most people in the class could speak French. And,  
of course, NO explanation whatsoever as to why they were singing this stupid,  
stupid song about killing birds.

Of course, he didn't speak up. To challenge the teacher in class... the other  
students would become unbearable, simply unbearable. So he waited until after  
class, anger building to a finely honed rage.

"Dismissed," Raphael-sama announced cheerfully, and turned his back  
on the students as they filed out, wiping the lyrics from the blackboard.

Mikael waited until everyone was gone, and headed to the front of the class,  
trying NOT to stalk. "Raphael-sama," he said, voice brittle.

"Aa?" Raphael asked, apparently bemused. Oh, there were times he  
just INFURIATED Mikael.

He clenched his teeth, tight, trying not to let his anger show. Forcing the  
politeness into shape. "Raphael-sama, may I ask the purpose of today's  
lesson?"

Finally, at LAST, Raphael turned. "The purpose of today's lesson,"  
he said calmly, "is the same as the purpose of all lessons in this  
class."

It was like a boot in the stomach. All the other students, perfectly okay  
with everything that was going on. He was the only one who didn't understand.  
The only one. Raphael-sama had never helped him with that, either, had just let  
him go on his own. As it should be -- only he could help himself. And he wasn't  
good enough, apparently, wasn't good enough. He couldn't meet Raphael's eyes,  
but knew he had to speak the fatal words. "It doesn't make any sense to me,  
Raphael-sama. I apologize for my stupidity."

Raphael reached out and Mikael's head was tilted up with one knuckle, forcing  
him to meet his teacher's eyes. Sympathy. Sadness. When he spoke, his voice was  
so changed, so soft. "Which is why you're so smart," Raphael-sama  
murmured.

Oh, so confusing, so confusing. Not helped at all by the fact that Raphael's  
face was inches away from his, breath washing over him. Not helped at all by the  
fact that Raphael's body was so nearly touching his that he could feel the buzz  
between their bodies. Not helped at all by the fact that his back was to a desk  
and he was torn between the cold of the metal and the warmth of Raphael. Just so  
confusing. Perfect student, he had to be the model student.

Almost reluctantly, Raphael's hand moved from Mikael's chin to his shoulder.  
"If you become an angel, you won't have all the answers. Sometimes you'll  
be given assignments you won't understand at all, but your obedience is what  
counts, not your comprehension of the meaning behind them. The simplest,  
ultimate purpose of an angel is to do the will of Most Holy, not to question it.  
So you have to learn to take the nonsensical in stride, and to learn when it's  
important to understand and when it's better that you not know at all." His  
eyes were begging Mikael to try to understand.

So he mulled it over, turned it this way and that. It was all very good in  
theory, but what about practice? What practical use could Allouette have? The  
perverted emperors of Rome? The Shining Genji's first wife? Where did it FIT?  
Why not something nonsensical that would also be useful? It just didn't make any  
sense. But he had to try to MAKE sense of it. "Can you give me an example,  
Raphael-sama?"

And Raphael just beamed, sending off a minor warning bell in Mikael's mind.  
"Indeed," Raphael said, and swooped forward to brush his lips across  
Mikael's cheek.

Heat, buzzing, burning, tingling. All right there, something so simple, so  
plain, sending a wave of fire into his belly.

"Now, what was that?" Raphael said.

Mikael wasn't sure how he looked, knew his masks were all displaced. Tried to  
calm his breathing, failed. "Nonsensical?" he asked, voice breaking.

Raphael nodded, apparently approving of the answer. Then bright, bright eyes  
softened, and he leaned forward, angling his head.

_This is it,_ Mikael thought, equally nonsensically, and closed his eyes  
as Raphael's lips touched his.

And he was flying, just flying, had figured out what it must be like for  
angels to fly, body alive, whole being thrumming as wetness and heat moved  
between their lips. And Raphael was kissing him so deeply, so very deeply that  
Mikael couldn't even think of not kissing back, unsure of whether to pull his  
teacher closer, just clenching his hands on Raphael's jacket lapels, just in  
case.

Slowly, so slowly, breath moving between them, Raphael pulled back.

It took Mikael several swallows, several breaths before he could speak  
without being sure his voice would crack. Even then, he spoke nearly subvocally.  
"So which was that?"

He had to know. It was so unfair, so infuriating, to want so much and to be  
so scared, so unsure.

Raphael's eyes were searching Mikael's face, darting here and there, and it  
was somewhat relieving to realize that his teacher was also unsure, also out of  
breath. "This one..." Raphael trailed off, started again. "It's  
important that you understand. I... care for you a great deal, Mikael. I want  
to--" And Raphael was blushing, Raphael-sama was actually _blushing_

"--But only if you want to, you don't have to..."

Some kind of barrier seemed to snap up in Raphael's eyes, calmness moving  
back in. He leaned forward again and brushed his lips over Mikael's in a mimic  
of their much more urgent motion, moments earlier.

And it still burned.

"Think about it," Raphael whispered, and picked up his bag, and  
left.

Think about it. THINK about it?! Mikael was outraged. How could he do  
anything ELSE, now?!

   


* * *

And think about it he did, as time went on and he didn't dare speak up.

He thought about it in Raphael's classes, often not hearing what was being  
said, just staring and thinking of that heat.

He thought about it in CASSIEL's classes and some of the students were  
starting to look at him oddly.

He thought about it while having dinner with Raphael, who seemed content to  
act as if it hadn't happened.

He thought about it while playing cards with Ardouisur-sama, until the angel  
had just laughed and sent him off to his own room to study, "Since your  
mind is anywhere BUT here."

He thought about it in bed, eyes closed so he couldn't see what he was doing  
as one hand hiked his shirt up to toy with a nipple, as one hand touched himself  
lightly, then more and more intently, as the scent of lilies floated in through  
the open window.

   


* * *

He thought about it on one of those lazy Friday evenings, when he knew his  
homework didn't need to be done for a few days. He was over at Raphael's  
partially working on a new song, partially just playing on the guitar as Raphael  
tapped at his laptop's keys nearby. He thought about it, thought about the  
feelings of the lips. Wondered what it would have been like to be more daring as  
they kissed, to trail his fingers over Raphael-sama's neck like _so_, to  
let his fingers run over that _gorgeous_ chest...

Out of the blue, Mikael felt himself being kissed, not the gentle, soft brush  
of lips like Raphael's last kiss had been, but more like the second, a burning  
concoction of tongue and lips and wet heat, leisurely but with the potential to  
explode into something more. ~That's odd,~ Mikael thought, eyes closed, barely  
stopping the moan from escaping his lips, tasting mandarin oranges, ~because  
Raphael-sama is over there...~

His eyes flew open and he stared at the -- smug? Pleased? -- expression on  
Raphael's face, his own fingers still on the guitar strings.

_It's not a difficult thing,_ Raphael's voice was in his HEAD, tinged  
with amusement. _You can project words and images as well as touch._

He was thinking slowly, too slowly, it took him a moment to catch on, to  
think of all the touch he was imagining. ~I would have to have developed  
telepathy NOW!~ Oh, it was embarrassing, hideously so, undignified... he felt  
his face heat. _I'm sorry, Raphael-sama, I didn't mean to..._ Only that  
wasn't right either, he thought, suddenly indignant. He WANTED to. He wanted to  
touch Raphael-sama like that. If the only way to do it was telepathically, then  
so be it! Only... he had no idea how much he'd just sent Raphael. Panicked, he  
added, _I mean..._

Hands were on him, he could feel it, even with Raphael still sitting, so  
calmly, though with his face slightly flushed -- over there. He could see  
something in his mind's eye and he was flushing, he was burning, at the image of  
Raphael moving over him, neither of them very clothed. He could almost feel the  
pressure on his own fingers as the image of Raphael's hands twined with his  
image's, could almost feel the wetness and the pressure of teeth as the image of  
Raphael kissed its way down his image's neck. And Raphael was projecting  
something else with it, the heavy thick tightness of desire, so hot, until  
Mikael didn't know whose desire was his and whose was Raphael's... it was all  
there, curled in his belly, tight, so tight. It would feel so good, he knew it  
would feel so good, and didn't know how he knew; maybe that was Raphael, too.

_I want you,_ Raphael murmured desperately into Mikael's mind. _I want  
~you~._

It was begging, it was pleading, it was something he could never resist, not  
that good, not that hot. Raphael had somehow moved over next to him and he'd  
missed it -- the guitar was lightly being taken away, one finger turned Mikael's  
face up.

He was going to be kissed again. He knew he would be. He wanted it. Didn't  
dare move closer, didn't dare ask, needed to be kissed. Uncontrolled, his breath  
panted out over Raphael's face.

_If this feels good,_ Raphael told him and Mikael twisted, moaning  
softly, as Raphael projected the sensation of a tongue over the rim of his ear, _Imagine  
what the real thing feels like._

Imagine. Think. That was all he'd been doing, lately, and they all came back  
to him in a rush, the images of what Raphael's lips would taste like on _this_  
day, the desperate hopes on this day, on that, that he'd get kissed again, out  
of the blue, and Raphael was moving in, descended on him, kissing. Not like any  
kiss Mikael had imagined. Too desperate, too needy, too gentle despite that. So  
hot, those little nips of tongue and teeth and lips and Mikael was making  
noises, helpless, desperate, shameful noises that were being swallowed up by  
Raphael.

It was a tidal wave, sweeping him away, making his limbs loose and helpful as  
Raphael pried at Mikael's school uniform. The shocks of skin on skin were like a  
match dropped on him, but less painful, a little. Raphael's mouth was on his  
ear, something that really SHOULDN'T have been sexual but was, tongue tracing  
the rim, teeth sending shocks of pleasure through him as Raphael nibbled at the  
lobe. Raphael was babbling, both out loud and telepathically. "I've wanted  
you," Raphael was murmuring, frantically unfastening and unbuttoning that  
perfectly proper school uniform. "Wanted you for so long..." he undid  
Mikael's collar and tie and began tasting Mikael's neck. Mikael buckled,  
helpless, found Raphael's hands on his back, wandering over his hips, supporting  
him and touching him as if he could be absorbed into Raphael through touch  
alone. _You can touch me too._ It was meant, probably, to sound reassuring,  
but there, minds touching, Mikael felt desperation, an edge of 'please touch  
me'. _Touch me and see what happens. I might_ A bribe? _Do this for  
you..._

Fire. He was on fire, in his mind, Raphael's face contorted in ecstasy, or  
suffering, or something, that low husk of a velvet whisper that was Raphael's  
voice was moaning, crying out, and Mikael couldn't tell if it was real or  
thought or imagined or -- and in reality, it must be reality, Raphael was  
holding him close, and Mikael was gasping in Raphael's ear, leaned near blindly  
to kiss the top of that ear.

Raphael moaned, ~that was silly, wasn't it, it was just a kiss, just a kiss~  
and Raphael's hands were inside his shirt, it was rumpled, the school vest  
pressing up against his lower back, and Raphael's hands were thumbing Mikael's  
nipples. He bucked with flash-fire.

_You can touch me like I touch you_ Raphael murmured into his mind,  
smoky whisper, hopeful, _However you want...anything you want._

He couldn't help thinking, panting aloud, of when they first met, of  
Raphael's chest, shining, beautiful, would it feel this good to touch him like  
he was being touched? Could it?

Raphael must have overheard, was pleading, _So touch me. You don't have to  
just look anymore. Touch me._

Could he beg any more? Did he even know he was begging?

Mikael was hot, fumbling, struggling in his own constricted clothing to get  
his hands under Raphael's jacket. Almost frightened, he brushed his fingers over  
Raphael's nipples, felt them like hard nubs, little points of heat, and he  
rested his hands there for a moment, feeling their demands on his palm and found  
himself on his back, Raphael pushing him down onto the window seat. Their bodies  
were pushed together, heat, and his hips jerked without him being able to stop  
it, he trembled, hands pressed against Raphael's chest.

_I think we're over-dressed, don't you?_ Raphael was rumbling,  
smirk-smiling down hotly. _Much better to be like this:_

And he was naked, naked, a tableau of tanned skin on ivory and heat buried  
far too deep inside him and he could feel the feathers from Raphael's wing  
brushing his side, sexy, so sexy, and could hear the gentle clink of their halos  
and

He took a breath and was clothed and was watching Raphael pull back a little,  
shrug out of his jacket, and Mikael gasped as Raphael reached out and helpfully  
tugged both partially undone school shirt and vest over Mikael's head without  
further ado. He could feel his hair muss, didn't care. Couldn't move, just  
gasping for air, as Raphael fumbled with his own double belts, leaving his pants  
hanging loosely about his hips, tented. Raphael paused there, then, and began  
kissing his way along Mikael's chest as if he couldn't stop himself and Mikael  
just writhed, because this was the real thing, lips and teeth and tongue teasing  
a burning path down, nose nuzzling gently at the softness below his navel.

_You've pleased yourself before, haven't you?_ Raphael murmured and OH  
the embarrassment.

~It's wrong, it was bad of me, I shouldn't~ Mikael thought, trying to form an  
answer.

_Oh, darling,_ Raphael murmured into his head, suckling on the soft skin  
and Mikael could feel his erection pushing against Raphael's chest. _no shame  
in that. None at all. Because it feels good, doesn't it?_ Raphael raised his  
head, jabbed his tongue into Mikael's navel and Mikael felt a moan torn from him  
at the shock of the pressure there. _It's okay to feel good. It's good to feel  
good._

~Oh, and I do, I do~ he was incoherent, staring up at Raphael's ceiling, lit  
gently by the screen of the laptop where Raphael had left it.

_I was just going to ask... any preferences?_

More embarrassment. He closed his eyes, still shivering, gasping at the wet  
exploration of his navel. Felt the tongue withdraw, Raphael's lips on his belly  
in what must be a smile.

_Hmmm... then why don't I introduce you to something you can't do for  
yourself?_

Possibilities sprung into Mikael's mind, all arousing. He was almost taken by  
surprise at the sound of his own zipper, at Raphael's gentle easing of his pants  
and underwear down his legs a little, Raphael's lips kissing along the path,  
nestling his nose in Mikael's pubic hair.

He was going to scream, he was sure he was going to scream.

_Ever wondered?_ and Raphael's mindspeak was thick with lust as he  
looked up at Mikael. He'd never seen lavender so cloudy. _Ever wanted to know  
what this would feel like?_

He saw, detached, not able to feel it yet, straining to feel it, Raphael's  
head turn, slide the head of Mikael's erection between his lips, keep going.

_It looks so good. I can't wait to taste._

And he could hear himself crying out, wordless begging, even as he thought,  
far away, bemused, that he should hardly be surprised that Raphael was a dirty  
talker.

Raphael's head turned.

He cried out, staring at the ceiling desperately, helplessly, drowning in  
sensation. He remembered himself, thinking of Raphael, his hands on his own  
body, the painful delight to be drawn there and no good, no good, but it was his  
Raphael, his Raphael of the wailed guitar songs and evening dinners and and and  
and

And he was gasping and writhing and bucking, hardly restrained by Raphael's  
restraining arm over his hips, and maybe he was crying a little, maybe.

_So good...it can always be this good, it can be even better. All for you,  
always for you..._

He arched, breath catching as lightning struck him.

Total relaxation, a moment later, hot, his own breath still loud in his ears,  
sprawled, taking up much more space on the window seat than was right, he was  
sure.

Raphael had moved up, was propped up on one elbow watching Mikael's face,  
smiling sweetly, and Raphael's erection was trailing a wet track across Mikael's  
left hip, in time with the thrusts. _So worth waiting for,_ Raphael's  
mental voice somehow reached him through the gauzy curtains of exhaustion and  
lingering tremors. _Waited...years...centuries..so long...to find you._

Tired, distracted, watching Raphael's face, Mikael put a hand on Raphael's  
shoulder and just left it there, looking at the distant look on the angel's  
face.

Silence, and he was contented, he realized. ~Content.~

_So worth it,_ Raphael gasped into his mind, face spasming as orgasm  
passed over it.

~I'm... content.~

   


* * *

It was like a secret, dark places and whispered words and looks cast back and  
forth when nobody was looking, nobody was looking.

And nobody dared comment, this time. Commented when it was false and never  
when it was true. ~Some sort of irony there.~

Perhaps students still saw things that would show off their relationship.  
Perhaps. But nobody said anything, whether because of fear of Mikael's superior  
training or because ... who knew why, really?

But nobody said anything, and exam time approached and Cassiel drifted around  
the room like some kind of wraith, sad ghost, and dropped a piece of paper on  
Mikael's desk, on everyone's desks.

Cassiel moved slowly to the front of the room and stared vaguely out at his  
class, not meeting anyone's eyes. "This is your final exam," Cassiel  
murmured, so that everyone had to strain to hear him. "About ninety percent  
of you will fail to complete it. If we are all very lucky, ten percent of you  
will succeed. Those who fail will become just another soul. Will dwell in the  
cities of the dead. I wish you to remember that that is not a bad fate. Class  
dismissed."

Some students were leaving right away to read their exams in private, some  
were unable to wait and opened it right there.

But really, why wait? Mikael unfolded the paper and read it. Then reread it.  
It didn't really register. Not really.

His feet ended up wandering him over to Raphael's apartment and the Professor  
let him in with a welcoming smile he felt himself return.

_This is not happening._

He held out his arms, thinking of body against body and felt Raphael take him  
in his arms. "We have forever," he heard himself murmur to Raphael,

"let's take our time."

Slow, like honey trailing from a ladle. Mikael was distracted, closed his  
eyes, stopped thinking.

   


* * *

Afternoon rolled around. Mikael lay, words heavy in his mind. _It doesn't  
matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It will never matter again._ He  
felt tears trail down his cheeks and they didn't matter, they didn't matter  
either.

"It doesn't matter," he said softly, aloud, tasting the words for  
texture and salt.

He felt rather than saw Raphael come over. Smelled rather than heard the soft  
query of "Mikael?"

Mikael stared at the crumpled paper in his hand, and now that he'd started,  
he might as well say it all aloud to get it said, so it would float in the air  
over his head like a second halo. "It doesn't matter how well I do. Because  
for Noelle to become an angel, she has to choose to do so." And it didn't  
matter, it didn't. Scholastic achievement meant nothing. Tests had to be passed  
by yourself, but he was to rely on some girl, some girl he didn't know, to pass  
the test for him. To pass his LIFE for him. "Right?"

Warmth as arms pressed around him. Strong, warm, empty comfort.

"Raphael-sama," he said, and suddenly was drowning, desperate,  
world rising up in a chaos flurry with colours, so many colours, all of despair,  
and who had known there were so many colours of despair and his arms were around  
Raphael now, clinging like tenacious lifeboat in a drowning ocean but where was  
the iceberg where was the boat that split and drowned and he was falling,  
clinging by two arms around empty comfort. "Raphael-sama, what if she says  
no?"

_She can say no._

Raphael was kissing his cheeks, desperately, and "It's going to be okay,  
Mikael," empty comfort lies.

_It's not going to be okay. She can say no._

And that was it, really, that was failure on a silver platter, steaming warm,  
that was hope and dreams and future falling away like three golden balls  
streaming from the sky to shatter on the earth below. Nothing he could do could  
make a difference. The best he could do was to trust. Blind faith, blind as  
night fell.

Numb, hearing his own voice crying, he felt a weight where there had been  
none before and raised his hands, without thinking, to grab his halo so it  
wouldn't fall on him.

_Fall._

It was heavy, a dull accusing gold and he could see gold eyes staring back  
accusingly, hating, from its surface as he looked at it and he dropped it, numb,  
feeling lighter and heavier, so empty.

He tried to scream, but when his mouth opened, nothing was there.

_Nobody can help me again._

   


* * *

The world trembled around him, candles falling over, and he was so hot, so  
hot, so helpless burning in a fever and it wasn't fair he hated them, he hated  
them, they should burn, they should they should all burn in fires let the flames  
rise up and--

No. That wasn't right.

The book was torn around him broken dreams broken dreams. He loved their  
terse screams, those stupid girls who did not know what they had to gain. Those  
little screams of pain. He could not scream, they would hurt for him, and his  
pain was his pain was his pain was--

That wasn't right either.

The world was falling down, falling falling.

_Fall._

Candles fell over around him and he clutched his head and screamed again,  
smelling burned feathers, incoherent. They deserved it they deserved it they  
deserved it they deserved

free will

And he wasn't right. He wasn't right, was he?

Numbly, he stared around, at the pain, the burning and suffering and forced  
anguish, at the stairs to heaven falling apart under false pretenses, at the  
candles burning like hell, the wings falling apart in despair and suffering.

_That was in me._

_Oh, Most Holy. What have I done?_

"Raphael-sama!"

He was screaming. Saying things he couldn't hear himself say over the sudden  
roar of the flames. Screamed until his voice broke, fragile, teenage.  
"Raphael-sama, PLEASE!"

Nothing. Silence but for the roaring and the screaming and the suffering and  
it was his fault and he'd fucked up, he'd fucked everything up and his exam  
didn't matter right now. People were in pain. People were suffering. And he  
couldn't help them alone.

_I can't do it alone!_

The stairs fell and he screamed, one last time, "RAPHAEL-SAMA!"

Blackness.

And arms caught him up and he could feel flames vanish, brightness, feel arms  
around him, warm, comforting, halting his fall.

For a moment, hanging in that eternity of a moment before he'd have to go and  
help, go and _help_, he closed his eyes and let that warmth surround him.

_It's going to be okay._

   


* * *

He took a deep breath, trying to dismiss his last minute jitters as he  
glanced out at the sea of halos and fresh faces, eager, interested, free from  
fear.

For a moment, he thought he wouldn't remember what he was to say, flashed  
back to so many years of _Class, this is Mikael, please make him welcome..._.  
Shaky, he took a deep breath.

"I'm Mikael," he said, "and it's my pleasure to be your  
teacher for this year." he bowed, reflexively, though certainly very few  
members of the class were Japanese.

Coming up, Mikael caught sight of Raphael leaning in the door with a thumb  
up, and smiled and smiled while the class murmured a response, in front of him.

_You okay?_ Raphael sent mentally. _You're doing great._

_Aa,_ he said, smiling out, now, at the class. _Aa. More than okay._

_Saa?_

_I'm in heaven._

 


	5. No One Else Will Do

He could count every time he had held Uriel in the sky like this.

His face was buried in the juncture where Uriel's wings met the powerful  
muscles of his back; his arms were wrapped around his waist, his own wings  
beating long and slow while Uriel's were held stiff and spread out. Around them  
the angry black clouds roiled, and the wind lashed through both them and the two  
angels suspended in the sky.

The Metatron kept his eyes closed, light gray eyelashes resting on his  
cheeks. He could hold Uriel close and pretend that the terrible Angel of Holy  
Wrath needed him for something more than the mere act of holding him aloft as he  
called the lightening. He knew what Uriel looked like when he summoned Most  
Holy's wrath - his famed azure eyes turned dark as the clouds about them, and  
the scathing wind turned his unevenly shorn black locks wild.

Soon, he thought meditatively. Soon Uriel would summon and it would be all  
over. Soon he would have to endure the agony of waiting for this time to come  
again. He felt the muscles beneath his cheek move as Uriel reached up with his  
right hand. Even with closed eyes, the Metatron could see the bright light  
gathering above. The wind around them roared and thrashed furiously, and Uriel's  
whispered chanting, drowned out by the wind, he heard nonetheless - prayers to  
Most Holy for power frequently went through the Metatron, which resulting in a  
strange echo when they went through the summoning ceremony.

The Metatron stiffened as the Most Holy's consent ripped through his mind,  
and he was unable to stifle an agonized cry as Uriel gathered that consent, that  
power, from his mind and used it to harness the lightening.

The earth below them flashed and crackled as the bolt touched ground, the  
smell of ozone flooding his nostrils and making him feel vaguely nauseous and  
euphoric at the same time.

This…this was joy.

"You can let me down any day now, Koe," Uriel called, his voice  
tinged with irritation.

As usual, Uriel ruined everything by opening his mouth.

   


* * *

In retrospect, going to bed with Uriel was one of worst decisions he could  
have made.

At the time, it seemed to have been everything he could have ever wanted, and  
indeed, it still was. Uriel had been gentle, kind…and most days the Metatron  
could lie to himself and pretend he had even been a little loving. Their  
lovemaking had been sweet and languorous, and the Metatron had thought he could  
just die right then and there after hearing all the pretty endearments Uriel  
favored him with.

In the morning, Uriel had kissed him briefly on the lips - a chaste, almost  
brotherly kiss. A parting smile and he was gone.

Though he knew Uriel's well-deserved reputation, it didn't make it hurt any  
less when the angel hopped into bed with a Gate guardian the next night. And  
someone else the night after. And someone different the night after that. Not to  
mention various interludes during the day. Uriel had amassed a large collection  
of lovers, both former and current, and went through them like a starving man at  
a banquet.

So, sitting at his desk, idly painting his nails cherry red, the Metatron  
wondered what he had ever done to deserve falling madly in love with such a  
promiscuous, dangerous twit. Here in the Tower, he could see all of Heaven. The  
twelve windows afforded him a near perfect panoramic view - to the right, the  
Angel School. To the left, the barracks of the warrior angels. Before him in the  
distance were the Great Gates themselves, and behind him was the City. Here  
alone in the highest point in Heaven, his mind was filled with the gentle hum of  
the presence of the Most Holy. He could never quite explain what it was like to  
have his mind linked to such an awesome, frightening, beautiful presence. It was  
soothing, in most cases - always there, a support to fall back on. Sometimes he  
was given orders he didn't like, but disobeying them was never an option and he  
learned to accept them with good grace. He'd only tried a few times to argue,  
and learned very quickly that when Most Holy was asked to explain, the  
thoroughness of the answer frequently led to a migraine. So he got used to doing  
what he was told and, apparently, his faith and devotion were the marvel of  
Heaven.

Most Holy seemed to think that was as funny as he did.

He knew he came off as something of a ditz, but he felt he had adequate  
justification. Having an all-powerful being almost constantly feeding directions  
and the occasional bad pun straight into their mind would make anybody speak in  
apparent non sequitors.

Someone rapped lightly on the door. "Come in," he called, resigning  
himself to severe candy theft as he felt Raphael's presence.

Raphael poked his head and, after ascertaining he wasn't interrupting  
anything, entered the room. The Metatron smiled reflexively - he just couldn't  
help it where Raphael was concerned. The other angel's dark lips would curve  
into a smile, and suddenly an entire room of people would smile back. It was as  
if his cheerfulness was contagious, and there were days when the Metatron wished  
he could catch it more often.

Raphael draped himself comfortably in an embroidered chair in front of his  
desk, raising his handsome face to luxuriate in the sunlight that streamed in  
uninhibited. The gentle crosswind ruffled his seeming permanent bedhead as he  
idly reached out for a peppermint twist. "What's up, Koe-kun?" Raphael  
asked. The nickname that he hated hearing from Uriel, who almost always used it  
when making a derogatory comment, was musical and affectionate from Raphael's  
lips. They were good friends - they had known each other for literally forever  
and furthermore, Raphael shared his secret and commiserated.

Raphael knew what it was like to love someone who didn't have a clue that he  
would hack off his wings himself if it would please his beloved.

"The usual," the Metatron told him, still smiling slightly.

Raphael adjusted his wing to make himself more comfortable, his eyes  
searching the Metatron's face. The Voice of Most Holy was used to those  
all-encompassing glances of Raphael's, and he knew the Professor could see what  
most others couldn't - a consuming devotion to the Most Holy and a crippling  
love for an angel who didn't even know what the word monogamous meant.

"You seem a little mopey, Koe-kun…you wanna go out tonight, have a  
good time?" Raphael asked, his lips smiling but his eyes serious.

"While I agree that watching you horribly embarrass your lover is one of  
the better forms of entertainment available, I think I'll pass."

Raphael leaned forward and waggled his eyebrows, his lips curving into a  
sensuous smile. "Why, Koe-kun! Have a hot date?"

The Metatron snorted. "That joke would be in bad taste if I weren't  
truly considering hauling Uriel to my bedchamber and handcuffing him to the  
headboard."

The Professor's head bobbed in satisfaction - he could practically see the  
pieces fitting together in Raphael's head. "The summoning today? Well,  
goodness knows Uriel wouldn't be unwilling if you asked. He's always a little  
horny afterwards, but then again, Uriel is always horny, but you know what I  
mean." Raphael cast a sidelong glance at the Metatron, and he could feel  
himself being practically dissected with that gaze. "Do you really think  
you should?"

The Metatron compressed his lips into a thin, agonized line. "I'll take  
what I can get." It was true - he would do anything for a kind word,  
anything to pretend that the unrequited love smoldering inside wasn't as  
one-sided as he knew it to be.

Raphael just looked at him, and the sympathy in those amethyst eyes made him  
jump up from his desk angrily and stalk over to an eastern window. He leaned  
against the window arch and watched the clouds passing for a few moments before  
choking out, "I wish…I wish to Most Holy I didn't feel this way."  
Though he wished otherwise, he couldn't prevent hot tears from slowly seeping  
down his cheeks.

Raphael gathered him in his arms and the Metatron wept quietly against his  
shoulder.

   


* * *

He was taken aback later in the day when some of the higher-up Guardians  
requested a meeting with him. There was nothing on his desk calendar for the  
late afternoon, so he agreed quickly enough. Frankly, he was quite curious to  
know what the flame sword-wielding angels had to say. At the appointed time, an  
apparent delegation walked into the room, their heads respectfully bowed.

Curiouser and curiouser. And was it his imagination, or did he feel…?

It wasn't his imagination. Uriel strode in, looking ever so slightly confused  
as he met the Metatron's eyes. However, any slight insecurity didn't keep him  
from sitting on the corner of his desk, which both pleased and annoyed the  
Metatron. How he was supposed to conduct business with Uriel's tempting backside  
inches away, he did not know.

"Metatron-sama," one of the Guardians began with a slight cough.

"We wish to discuss a matter of the personal security of the Voice of the  
Most Holy." The other angels nodded solemnly, almost eagerly in their  
support of their spokesman.

"My security?" the Metatron asked incredulously, grey eyes going  
wide. "I have a legion of guardians to protect me - do explain yourself,  
Captain."

The captain looked hesitantly at the openly bored Uriel.  
"Perhaps…perhaps the Voice of the Most Holy should train another in his  
stead, so that he may not be obliged to risk himself when the angel Uriel  
summons the wrath of Most Holy?"

The Metatron urged his hands to unclench from the fists they had almost  
instinctively formed. He couldn't! He just couldn't have that taken away from  
him - damn it, it was all he had! He bit his lower lip, trying to form words to  
diplomatically refuse such a wretched suggestion.

"I'm afraid that's quite impossible," Uriel said smoothly, his  
voice warm like honey and sending a small shiver down the Metatron's back. Uriel  
gracefully stood up and walked behind the desk, standing just behind the  
Metatron and placing his hands on his shoulders. "The Metatron is necessary  
for the summoning. Holding me aloft isn't the important part - it's the consent  
of the Most Holy. So you see, no one else will do."

The guardians blinked in unison, which almost provoked the Metatron into a  
fit of giggles. But they nodded their heads in understanding, though still quite  
solemnly. "We thank the Voice of the Most Holy for hearing our words,"  
the captain said, his tone that of a chastised child. Still solemn, the  
guardians filed out of the room.

Uriel leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, his breath ruffling the  
strands of hair by the ear. "Well, that was a waste of our time. But at  
least they're looking out for you, ne?" he winked and adjusted the floppy  
beret on his head. "Ja, matta ne," he called over his shoulder as he  
walked out the door.

Sitting in stunned silence, the Metatron touched his cheek in wonder. It  
tingled in memory of Uriel's soft lips. A waste of his time, was it? Surely not!

_No one else will do._

He felt his face spread into a warm, truly delighted smile and felt happier  
than he had in quite some time. He picked up the cell phone on his desk and  
quickly dialed a number. "Hello, Raphael? Yes, it's me. Would you mind if I  
came along with you and Mikael tonight after all? I feel like going out and  
having a good time…"


	6. Dare

[5:00]

Mikael was late getting out of class.

This was not an uncommon event. It had been a VERY uncommon event back when  
he was a student... since Raphael would take any chance he got to get Mikael  
alone, Mikael would take every chance he got to /not/ be alone. That had been  
the very reason Raphael had applied to tutor Mikael one-on-one -- that, and some  
bullshit he'd managed to pull about Mikael's 'special circumstances'. Thinking  
back to that state always made Raphael smile. The /lengths/ he'd go through for  
some private time with that boy... and the lengths Mikael would go to to avoid  
it. Of course, Raphael'd always won. Always would, too, Raphael decided. He had  
the advantage of Mikael's having never figured out the headache excuse.

But now that Mikael had to actually teach CLASSES at the angel school, he  
ended up having to stay after class to help his class. Usually students, but  
more commonly now, student.

Mikael had Azrael's protege in his class, and Az's boy seemed to have set  
himself a goal of making Mikael's life miserable. An admirable persuit, Raphael  
had to admit, but fairly unoriginal. HE'd been doing it since before Az's boy  
had even been considered a candidate for angeldom.

Sure enough, when he walked into Mikael's class, the aqua-haired angel had  
his head down on his desk and Cherior, red-haired, short, and strong, was  
standing before the desk. "But what DOES happen to someone after they  
become an angel?" the redhead was demanding.

A heavy sigh, muffled by oak. "You have to learn that for  
yourself."

"Oh?" The redhead leaned over the desk. "I don't /think/ so.  
Why else would we have to have TEACHERS anyway? I think you don't /know/ the  
answer. You're not even qualified to teach, are you? I think I should go to  
Gabriel-sama with my complaints."

Very slowly, Mikael's head raised from the desk. He had the extremely calm  
expression he only wore when he was very, very angry, and his golden eyes were  
sharp. He smiled, a slow, deliberate stretching of lips and baring of teeth.  
Raphael thought he could hear, very distantly, the high whine of an electric  
guitar. Equally slowly, Mikael rose. He wasn't a tall angel by any means, but he  
was a little taller than Az's boy, who hadn't had his growth spurt yet.

Mikael leaned in, so he was nose-to-nose with the redhead. "You know  
what, Cherior? You do that. Go to Gabriel-sama. Tell him exACTly what you told  
me. Better yet, go to Azrael and tell /him/. Go on. Try me."

Cherior laughed, turned, and bumped his nose into Raphael's chest.

"Gabriel's a very busy man," Raphael said, pushing Cherior away by  
the shoulders. "You might get better answers from Azrael."

The redhead scowled, started to flip Raphael off and thought better of it,  
and sauntered away.

Mikael was slowly shredding a piece of paper between his fingers. "I  
give up. I really shouldn't be a teacher. One of these days I'll be teaching  
ancient Chinese poetic forms and Cherior will just open his mouth and I will  
kill him. Visciously--" he started in on a new piece of paper "-- and  
quite happily, might I add. And then Azrael will murder me and that will be the  
end. But at least I will have had the pleasure of killing that, that--"

Raphael patted his shoulder sympathetically. "If you think it's bad now,  
just wait until you get called to be a supervisor for a school dance. Five to  
one Az's boy gets drunk and vomits on someone's feet."

The paper slipped from numb fingers as Mikael seemed to space out. Distantly,  
he murmured, "If Cherior ever becomes a teacher, I hope he has a student  
who is three times as irritating as he is."

Unable to stop himself, Raphael grinned. "Hey, you know, I'd wished that  
before about /you/. Strange how our prayers are answered..."

Golden eyes fixed on Raphael, who counted slowly to three before starting to  
run.  


* * *

  


[5:12]

He'd almost made it to the Faculty Lounge before Mikael caught up to him.  
Though taller and much more muscled than his slender, pretty-boy lover Mikael,  
the loss of one wing had unbalanced Raphael's body and, at the same time,  
removed an unfortunately sizable amount of muscle that made it much more easy  
for him to get winded than he liked. And so Mikael caught up, and even then,  
Raphael would have been fine as he lunged for the door, but the newer angel gave  
one powerful push of his wings and grabbed at Raphael's legs. Half-in and  
half-out of the door, Raphael writhed, laughing, trying to squirm out of  
Mikael's hold. The smaller angel twisted Raphael's left arm behind his back,  
also laughing.

"I give in!" Raphael cried, tapping out with his free hand.

"Come on, darling, I'm already down a limb, don't take another!"  
Mikael let go so quickly that Raphael's body actually jerked, and the one-winged  
angel turned over before Mikael could quite scramble away, holding Mikael's legs  
to his hips so that the younger angel was held straddling him. "You caught  
me," Raphael said, and smiled.

The younger angel raised pale brows. "Who's caught who?" he  
wondered, bracing himself against Raphael's chest with his hands, leaning  
forward. Raphael's eyelashes dipped, slightly, as he raised his head to meet  
Mikael's lips, his own dark lips half-open already.

"Children," a voice reproved gruffly from inside the Lounge.

Mikael jerked back, jumping to his feet, embarrassed. Sighing at the missed  
opportunity, Raphael rolled into a crouch, then stood and crossed his arms at  
Azrael, who was sprawled out on one of the couches. "Come on," Raphael  
muttered at the Angel of Death. "I seem to recall some interesting places  
YOU ended up with your sweetie."

Azrael just crooked an eyebrow and took a sip from his steaming mug.

Beside him, Mikael had tensed a little, as if remembering the source of his  
problems. Raphael glanced over in time to see his lover's hands clench into  
fists. He hoped, desperately, that Mikael didn't try to deck Azrael. The scar  
where his wing had been ached at the thought.

"Azrael," Mikael said sweetly. "You're going to have to do  
something about Cherior."

The black eyebrow winged again. "I'm going to HAVE to?"

"If you want him to live," Mikael specified. "I think I can  
get away with temporary insanity charges, after what he's put me through."

Azrael waved a hand. "Oh, the little fucker isn't all that bad,  
really."

Azrael's lover, Suriel, emerged from the kitchenette with a cup of tea.  
"Actually, love, you wouldn't want to hear some of the things he says to  
me."

They shared a look that Raphael knew was closed-wave telepathy, and Azrael  
scowled. "Right," he said, and cracked his knuckles. "I'll have a  
word with him."

Mikael smiled.

Suriel hummed cheerfully as he straightened some cushions on the other couch,  
then beamed at Raphael and Mikael. "Could I get you some tea or  
coffee?"

"Um, tea, please," Mikael said.

Raphael leaned over Azrael's shoulder, taking a look at what the darker Angel  
of Death was drinking. Coffee? He sniffed, smelled grinds and booze, and made a  
face. "What /is/ that, Az, coffee or brandy?"

"Yes," Azrael said, and took another sip.  


* * *

  


[5:21]

Pretty soon, they were involved in a conversation on Uriel's latest antics.  
Raphael, though contributing helpfully with the most recent rumours, wasn't  
really paying much attention to the discussion. Mikael had developed an adorable  
habit of winding his fingers through his bangs as he talked, and Raphael found  
himself wanting, as usual, to be alone with the younger angel. As they laughed  
at one thing or another their colleague had done, Raphael touched Mikael's  
cheek, his shoulder, his leg. Lightly, almost not thinking about it, because he  
liked touching Mikael. His aqua-haired lover seemed not to notice, but once in a  
while, as Raphael's fingers brushed here, or knuckles brushed there, Mikael  
would pause while talking and take a moment to regain the thread of what he was  
saying, lips pursed in thought, adorable, kissable.

~You are so far gone,~ Azrael's voice whispered in Raphael's head. He didn't  
answer. He would have liked to, would have liked to find some way to laugh it  
off or send the joke back, but it was the truth, he /was/ far gone, and he  
didn't want to hurt Mikael's feelings by making a joke about it. For some  
reason, and Raphael hadn't been able to figure out why, Mikael was able to pick  
up anything that Raphael telepathed, or that was telepathed to him. It wasn't  
normal, not for any angel, but admittedly Mikael was, as Azrael had put it more  
than once, 'Fucking weird'. He smiled slightly at that memory and brushed his  
knuckles once more across Mikael's baby-soft cheek.

~You really are,~ Azrael repeated, amused, not aware that he might as well  
have said it aloud; Mikael could hear and Azrael probably hadn't bothered to  
hide his thoughts from Suriel. Even then, Suriel probably could have guessed. Oh well. He smiled brightly back at Azrael. ~Don't suppose that  
means you'll go off somewhere and let us have the Lounge to ourselves?~ He  
accompanied the sending with a series of softcore images.

Mikael, who had been talking, stuttered into silence, flush heating pale  
cheeks. His gold eyes, bright with embarrassment and another form of heat,  
locked onto Raphael's in their startlement.

By the Most Holy, he loved Mikael's eyes, their outer ring of dark gold that  
flecked into the paleness before growing dark again, loved the way he could make  
them go sharp or dull, pupils tight or wide, just by saying a few words or doing  
a few things. Mikael was so expressive, always expressive, but his eyes spoke  
even more than his body did. Even without telepathy, Raphael thought he could  
have whole conversations with Mikael's heart just by watching his eyes respond.

Silence stretched and Suriel coughed into a hand. "Mikael, you were  
saying?"

Golden eyes broke away from the hold, colour still high in Mikael's cheeks.  
"I... oh. Um. I'd heard a rumour that Uriel has even had his way with the  
Metatron himself." Raphael winced, having been one of the few people the  
Metatron would talk with, and knowing the Voice of God's desparation for Uriel  
to return his feelings. But it had been said.

Despite the potential juiciness of the gossip, Mikael didn't seem to be  
thinking about it, instead watching his fingers twine together in his lap.  
"Um, do you think it's true?"

"You'd have to ask Uriel," Azrael said dryly. "I'm sure he'd  
brag, at any rate."

"Ask me what?" Uriel said from the doorway, and Raphael threw his  
hands up in dispair.

It was the way of things. He wanted privacy with his lover, and more people  
showed up. He wanted the subject to be dropped for the Metatron's sake, and  
Uriel himself arrived. "I'm getting more tea," he said.  


* * *

  


[5:47]

"--Can't keep his mouth shut in bed. Or when he's asleep for that  
matter." Uriel waved a hand. "Quite educational, I assure you."

Azrael muttered something that Raphael couldn't catch but that was  
undoubtably derogatory, and Suriel choked on a chuckle. Mikael's ears were  
flushed a perminant pink. Raphael 'hmmed' thoughtfully, face impassive.

"Honestly, though," Uriel continued, "considering his  
personality, that's really not a surprise. Now, Gabriel -- I could hardly  
believe it when I got through to him."

"Gabriel-sama?!" Mikael squeaked, disbelievingly.

Uriel blinked at the newer teacher. "Have you LOOKED at that man,  
Mikael? Delightful, absolutely delightful. Of course, it was never really a  
serious affair. More an act done to express our friendship. Poor Gabriel gets so  
stressed so easily... it's practically my /duty/ as one of his loyal angels to  
do what I can to relax him, make him remember some of the good things about life  
at this school. Knowing that, how COULD I possibly turn away from that wonderful  
man in his hours of need?"

"Skank," Azrael said.

Uriel waved it off. "But enough about me." Raphael thanked Most  
Holy silently and quite thoroughly, but Uriel wasn't finished talking. "I'm  
not the only one who's done nicely for myself. How are our happy new  
lovers?"

"Fine, thank you," Mikael said politely at the same time as Raphael  
answered,

"Outdoing you in several areas."

In the stunned silence that fell, Raphael actually believed he could hear  
Mikael's face heating.

Finally, Uriel grinned with that nonchalant ease that seemed to always come  
to him. "You lie."

"Like a rug, yes, I know," Raphael nodded, face schooled in  
seriousness. He felt a little bit sorry; Uriel's promiscuity seemed to be his  
pride. But it wasn't fair that Azrael and Suriel would be deliberately hanging  
around when they KNEW he wanted to be alone with Mikael, encouraging the rake to  
go on about his affairs when Mikael was a foot away and mostly untouchable. It  
wasn't fair that Uriel never looked at another's feelings. Besides, Uriel would  
take the challenge well; there WAS something to say about the blue-eyed angel's  
easy-going manner. "Your problem is, dear Uriel, that you have such a  
variety of interests that you can't afford enough time with one person to get to  
know that person's triggers. It only follows that, though you get a larger  
number of different flavours, someone who sticks with one flavour gets to know  
that one flavour better than you do your collection."

He beamed. Uriel beamed back. Mikael looked as if he was going to die. The  
other two watched with the satisfied air of sports commentators.

"So," Uriel said. "You gonna share some of the juicy  
details?"

"Wanna watch?" Raphael replied, leering.

Mikael hit him. "Raphael-sama!"  


* * *

  


[6:00]

Everyone was getting vaguely hungry, and Raphael began to wonder if he could  
use that as an excuse for heading back to his and Mikael's apartment. Uriel,  
who'd been drinking straight brandy out of a mug, leaned forward.

"Has anyone heard of a game called 'Truth or Dare'?" he asked,  
grinning.

Nervously, Mikael raised a hand.

Uriel nodded. "Figures. You were probably a little party-animal down on  
earth." He ignored Mikael's sputtering and continued. "In the game,  
you ask someone 'Truth or dare', and they get to pick one. You either give them  
a dare or ask them a question and they have to either respond truthfully, if  
it's truth, or complete the dare if it isn't. If they refuse to do their  
assigned choice, they have to accept a set penalty: in this case, contributing  
money for dinner." He beamed. "How's that?"

"You're just looking for an excuse to brag," Raphael accused, and  
Uriel shrugged.

Though Mikael looked uncertain, Suriel and Azrael sat to play, and it looked  
like the game would be on. Uriel started: "Mikael, truth or dare?"

Raphael's lover visibly hesitated. "D... Truth."

The Sinatra-esque angel quirked an eyebrow, smiling sensually. "Where do  
you consider to be the most kinky place you and Raphael have ever had sex?"

Mikael's head thumped into the table, and Raphael felt a rush of sympathy. It  
often seemed as though the easily embarrassed Mikael really wasn't the type to  
stay with Raphael's friends.

"Well?" Uriel prompted. "Unless you /really/ want to donate to  
our supper?"

Finally, Mikael spoke, though his voice was muffled by the table. "In  
the classroom."

Uriel looked disappointed. "How is THAT kinky?"

"There was fifteen minutes until class started, and some of my students  
show up early," Mikael explained through gritted teeth, then turned  
hurriedly to

Suriel. "Suriel, truth or dare?" The game continued, and they were  
starting to build quite the hoard of money on the table --mainly from Mikael,  
who had protested a few dares -- when Azrael turned to Raphael with a smug look  
on his face. "Truth or Dare?"

"Dare," Raphael answered, smiling easily. He'd been Professor long  
enough to not have to worry particularly about anything Az could ask him.

The cruel Angel of Death steepled his fingers, leaning forward. "I dare  
you to go to the Demon Court this evening. Bring something back to prove you've  
gone."

"Azrael!" Suriel protested, putting a hand on his lover's shoulder,  
but Az was still smiling.

The rest of the room held its breath.

The Demon Court was the demon race's answer to the Angel School. Common  
demons, like the ones Noelle's family had been, weren't even given access. It  
was the domain of the Unfaithful and the demesne of the Morning Star. Only one  
angel who still attended the school had ever been there, Omael, who was  
considered an impartial observer, Faithful and Unfaithful. No other angel even  
had a key to the realm.

Mikael clutched at his arm. "Raphael-sama! Don't!"

He made the mistake of looking at distressed golden eyes. They quavered,  
slightly, with the intaken-breath instinct of /please don't./

~It's not a nice place, Raphael-sama,~ Mikael pleaded into his mind. ~Please  
don't go. Not for something as silly as this. Please.~

It was hard -- almost impossible -- to argue with that. Painful, even. But  
the dare itself was impossible, and so Raphael had to try. He never could turn  
down a challenge. And he'd always wondered...

Besides, Mikael had been there -- once -- before, and returned. Omael had  
gone and returned.

"After dinner, I'll go," he said, more jovially than he had thought  
he could manage before he'd tried.

The game ended there, and they ordered in dinner. Mikael was silent  
throughout the meal, and as Raphael held out his teacup for a refill, Mikael's  
hand snuck out and took his, fingers twining.

Suriel cleaned up the plates, and Raphael rose, hand slipping from Mikael's.  
He stretched, trying to ease his inner discomfort. "I'll just go make  
arrangements. I'll be back by midnight."

"I'm going with you," Mikael said, rising, determined.

Raphael reached for the spot of inner calm he'd turned to so many times when  
upset, and smiled at Mikael, pretending his fingers weren't itching for a guitar  
to let his worry out on. "No, it's all right. I'm not the Professor for  
nothing, you know." He wanted to take Mikael back to their rooms now, spend  
a quiet hour, just in case, but he didn't want to waste time, wanted to get back  
well before the deadline. He leaned forward and brushed a light kiss over the  
other angel's lips. "Don't wait up."

Mikael looked as if he were going to say something else, then let his hand  
drop from where it had reached out. He straightened, eyes shuttering, and it  
shot straight to Raphael's heart. He realised that if Mikael told him once more  
not to go, he wouldn't. But Mikael said nothing, just looked at him with gold  
eyes gone suddenly distant.

"I think," Uriel said, "that we'll all wait up to see how this  
one goes."  


* * *

  


[7:18]

There was no answer when Raphael knocked on the door of Omael's room, so he  
knocked again, louder, then shrugged and tested the door. It was unlocked.

As he pushed the door open, he was treated to a sight that could have been a  
painting, remote from reality. Omael knelt in the center of the floor, smiling  
and humming to himself, golden be-ribboned hair tumbling about his stooped  
shoulders. He had wings but no halo. A pile of paper was on his left and a huge  
pile of folded orgami was on his right. Paper cranes. Raphael thought of the  
girl on Earth who had had a crush on Mikael, and Raphael thought of insanity.

Current theory was that it was the many trips back and forth between opposing  
existances that had unbalanced Omael, though when he was being honest with  
himself, Raphael could admit that many of the angels seemed a little unbalanced,  
himself included. It might well be his role as the Recorder, impartial observer  
of Court and School, which caused his public coldness and jumpiness, but Raphael  
had his own theory. There were only so many lies someone could have before he  
got lost between them, after all.

Pupilless blue eyes were half-lidded as fingers delicately worked paper into  
a shape, laid it on the pile, and took up another sheet. He hadn't noticed  
Raphael.

"What will you wish for?" Raphael asked.

Omael literally jumped, ending up on his feet, wings half-spread for balance.  
A crane was crushed under his left foot. Blank eyes opened wide, not-quite  
looking at Raphael. "How did you get in here?!" His voice was  
surprisingly harsh compared to the melody it had been composing earlier. A  
ribbon-braid fell over one eye.

Raphael casually jerked his thumb back and took a step forward, smiling.  
"You left the door unlocked. Nobody answered when I knocked, so I came  
in."

Cold voice, cold tongue. "What do you want, Medicus?" It was  
typical of Omael to use his angelic title, not his professional title. It made  
another wedge of distance, so Raphael took another step forward, careful not to  
step on any cranes himself. It wasn't /his/ wish, after all.

"I need to borrow your key." He kept his voice light. "To the  
Demon Court. And I need you not to tell anyone."

A half-folded crane fell from pale fingers, and Omael's mouth worked a few  
times. "You're insane," the Recorder said. "You're not allowed to  
go there. Why do you think I'd give my key to /you/?"

There was a nearly-hidden tone in that last word, an almost hysterical  
accusation. Raphael was very good at reading people, and it implied something  
he'd suspected. He reached out and touched a half-faded small bruise on Omael's  
neck -- a type he'd left on Mikael more than once-- before the other angel  
slapped his hand away. "Perhaps," he said, "I can give /him/ some  
news for you?"

Omael cried out, covering the bruise with a hand, shaking his head, wordless.  
"No... you... How do you know?!" Eyes looked around, fearful, checking  
to make sure that the door was closed, panicky. "You can't... you shouldn't  
know!!" A fist flew out, and Raphael caught it.

The hand that followed it was soft, placed on the front of Raphael's chest.  
It trembled slightly, and fingers were tense. "You can't tell anyone. You  
can't. I'll do anything. Just don't. Don't."

Raphael forced himself to keep smiling. "Just your key, please. Nobody  
needs to know, and I'll return it later tonight, no harm done."

Omael's hand jumped away from Raphael as if he'd been burned, and he stumbled  
backward, knocking paper cranes everywhere. "Key. Of course. The key. Yes.  
And you won't tell anyone." Blank eyes shut, and there was a flash as a  
crimson key appeared in his hand. He held it out to Raphael, shakily.

"Promise me. Promise me you won't."

Desperation. Raphael felt like shit. "Of course, Omael. I won't tell  
anyone." The key was hot as Omael pressed it into his hand and he took a  
quick step back, wanting out already. There was a quiet thump as Omael sank to  
the floor and Raphael hesitated, looking at him. "Just..." his  
curiousity had been his undoing more than once. "Why, Omael? Why the  
Morning Star?"

Tears were rolling down his cheeks, but Omael looked at him steadily through  
them, mustering what had to be a last ounce of dignity. "I don't expect you  
to understand. All you need to do is not tell anyone. I'd kill you before they  
threw me out. I would, you know. So you won't tell anyone."

"No. No, I won't." Unable to take his eyes off the cranes Omael was  
methodically crushing between his fingers, Raphael nodded once, respectfully,  
and backed away, shutting the door.

As soon as it was closed, the screaming began. Raphael hurried down the hall  
and was halfway down when he saw Mikael waiting for him.  


* * *

  


[7:31]

"I don't believe you," Mikael said, voice hard. The screaming was  
still audible, faint, but audible. "Did you /bully/ him?"

Raphael thought about himself and decided on honesty. "Yes."

Golden eyes widened and Mikael huffed. "I never understand you. That was  
cruel."

"Probably, yes." He checked the time. "I don't have that long,  
Mikael. I have to get going."

Full lips hardened into a thin line and Mikael took a step forward, whole  
body tense. "Why won't you listen to me, Raphael-sama? You don't want to  
go. It's not a nice place, it's full of not-nice people, and it's definately not  
worth not being nice yourself over. Just listen to me, give the key back, and  
tell Azrael you'll pay for the next dinner, or something." Mikael was  
angry, not screaming-angry, but really calm-angry. It hurt Raphael, having eyes  
like coins glaring at him like that.

"I already agreed to do it, Mikael. I'm just going to get it over with, now."

Mikael slapped him. "You /never/ listen to me! Doesn't it  
matter what I feel?!"

Slowly, Raphael touched his cheek where it stung. It was probably quite red;  
Mikael hadn't held back. He couldn't help remembering, again, the past, where he  
had wanted, many times, to do the same. "When it seems as though a person  
isn't listening," he said, "they either aren't hearing your meaning,  
aren't paying attention, or they are listening but feel as if there's something  
they need to do for themselves that no amount of words will change."

"And what is it this time?" Mikael asked, soft, angry.

"I always listen to you, Mikael," Raphael said, and leaned forward  
to touch his lips to Mikael's unresponsive ones. He smiled, wistfully, and  
pushed past his lover.

Mikael's voice stopped him before he'd gone much further. "/Why/,  
Raphael-sama?"

Omael's words flashed in his mind and he bit back before he said them  
himself. "Because. I need to know what other angels, good angels, gave all  
this up for." He waved around at the shining halls. "I've wanted to  
for a long time. If I don't, how can I feel justified in my own choice?"

He summoned his own Earth Key and vanished.  


* * *

  


[7:45]

Raphael had to go to Earth before he could use Omael's Court Key. Earth was  
the transit point; it overlapped both worlds. He breathed in Japan's fresh air,  
watched people walk by without seeing him, and stepped aside before someone  
walked through him. It was something he couldn't get used to.

Still, it had been a choice he'd made. He concentrated on Omael's Key.  


* * *

  


[7:48]

The place he reappeared was dark and it took his eyes a moment to adjust to  
the absence of light. It was also very quiet, the kind of quiet that poor  
suspence authors refer to as 'too quiet'. It was the kind of quiet that one  
could imagine bad guy background music playing in. And there was a smell, not  
actually unpleasant, but unusual and completely indescribable. His time-sense  
was gone, and as he waited for his eyes to adjust, he couldn't tell if seconds,  
minutes, or hours passed. It was a setting that seemed, to Raphael, designed to  
set a person on edge. He gave himself another reason that Omael might be  
unbalanced.

It wasn't completely lightless, after all; his halo cast a dim radius of  
light in a circle around him and Raphael was suddenly quite aware that in this  
dark realm, to someone used to it, he was lit up like a beacon. More unease.  
He'd finally found a place he couldn't live, he told himself, trying to lighten  
his suddenly nervous thoughts.

It didn't work.

As his eyes finally gave up their protests at the change and vision began to  
work again, he saw the open, dark gates in front of him. "Too late  
now," he told himself, and his voice echoed oddly in the non-sound.

A few quick steps forward, and suddenly it was a bit lighter, as if being  
inside the Court offered some respite from the outside world. He recognized the  
false comfort for what it was, and appreciated it nonetheless. It was slowly  
beginning to dawn on Raphael that Mikael had been right; this was a /very/  
dangerous place, and not just physically.

To the North, barraks. To the South, the Dreaminglands -- the demonic  
equivalent of the Wasteland. It was light, over there, shifting and uncertain.  
Now trees, now rock, now sand. Everything and nothing. Raphael quickly  
transferred his gaze straight ahead, to the West.

The Court. Dark, tall buildings from a Gothic painting. Again, the doors were  
open, and Raphael could see blue fires in torches on the walls of the first  
hall.

He should move more quickly, he realized, unless he /wanted/ to get caught.

He ran. Up the dark marble steps and into the First Hall. Masks lined the  
walls, lit eerily by the balefires, and he decided that was enough proof.

As he touched one, its eyes opened, and he shuddered, but when his hand had  
been on it for more than a moment, the eyes closed again. He threw it into a  
jacket pocket and turned, running back for those gates, stumbling into darkness.  
The Earth Key was cool in his hand and he concentrated on that, hard.  


* * *

  


[10:49]

In the Demon Court's security room, the Head of Security and Chief Commander  
of the Army replayed the security tape yet again, slowing it at the appropriate  
times.

"Damn it," he swore. The humour of the situation was not lost on  
him. Green eyes slid shut and a hand ran through charcoal curls with an  
aggravated motion.

He knew he had to say something; with a Mask of Destiny stolen, the fact that  
there had been an intrusion simply couldn't be overlooked. Either Raphael would  
get accused, or...

Fingers traced over the paused image on screen. How long had it been, he  
wondered, since he had last seen that face, that muscled body? A wing was  
missing since that time, but so little else had changed.

No. There could be no trace, or he'd be doing Raphael the type of injustice  
he'd promised never to commit.

The image on the tape faded and blurred into unrecognizability until there  
was little but a holy haze. As Raphael's image faded, Belial allowed his eyes to  
close in pain.  


* * *

  


[10:54]

A wave of relief washed over Raphael as his balance reasserted themselves. He  
realized he was humming and couldn't repress a grin as he recognized the tune.  
/Keep the Home Fires Burning/.

"Raphael-sama." Mikael had been waiting, leaning against a wall,  
brows creased. Now he took a step forward, hand outstretched. "Are you...  
all right?"

Raphael took a few quick steps forward and crushed the other angel to him.  
"Nothing a large amount of alcohol wouldn't erase," he said into  
Mikael's hair. "No, you're quite right, Mikael. That was /not/ a nice  
place. I have no idea how any of the Unfaithful could make a choice to dwell  
there."

"I /told/ you," Mikael reproved. "Now give Omael's key back  
and apologize, Raphael-sama. The Recorder goes through enough /without/ you  
adding to it."

"Yes, Mother," Raphael sighed, hanging his head, grinning a silly  
grin.

"Raphael-sama!"

It was good to be home.  


* * *

  


[11:00]

Omael wasn't in his room. Raphael found him in the Faculty Storage Room,  
methodically feeding origami paper into the paper shredder. "Thank  
you," he said.

The Recorder took the key and cradled it to him like a child, arms crossed  
over it, over his heart. "Don't ever thank me," he said.

Raphael nodded and backed away.

"You're a bastard," Omael said, conversationally. "Mikael's a  
nice boy. Worthy of Most Holy. I have no idea why it's considered fair that you  
have him."

Comments like that were one of the few kinds that would make Raphael actually  
want to hit someone. He smiled, somewhat sickly. "Persistance works  
miracles."

"Persistance," Omael said, feeding another sheet of paper into the  
machine, "is never enough. It can't be enough. Some people just have all  
the luck. Now get the fuck out of my sight."

He did so.  


* * *

  


[11:04]

"I don't think he likes me," Raphael confessed. Mikael looked at  
him reproachfully, a slight pouting expression that vanished as soon as Raphael  
started sucking on his lower lip. The aqua-haired angel flushed, stepping back,  
breath catching. "Let's go back to our apartment, Raphael-sama."

The mask twitched in his pocket and Raphael grimaced. "After I show the  
proof to the Bastard, I'll be more than glad to take you up on that."

The others were still in the Lounge, and they were apparently waiting for  
him. Suriel let out a breath of relief, Uriel applauded, and Az raised an  
eyebrow. "The proof?"

He tossed the mask at Azrael, not wanting his fingers on it longer than  
necessary. "Proof enough?"

Azrael made a face, looking it over. "I'd say so. Though I have no idea  
what the fuck possessed you to steal a Mask of Destiny. The demons are going to  
be clamoring for recompensense for this, yanno."

It took a moment to sink in. "Oh," Raphael said, sheepishly.  
"So THAT'S a Mask of Destiny."

"Oh dear," Uriel said. "Um. You'd better take it back."

Raphael felt his stomach drop. "No," he said, perhaps a tone too  
loudly. "I am NOT going back there. I'll just leave it in Gabriel's office,  
or something."

Suriel winced. "He'll be angry."

"/Let him/."  


* * *

  


[11:42]

They had indeed just dropped it off in his office, and Raphael turned as  
Mikael locked the door. Mikael had the guilty look of self-blame and Raphael  
would be willing to bet his other wing that he was wishing he'd stopped Raphael.

"Raphael-sama," Mikael began, so Raphael lunged forward and kissed  
him, using the time-tried method of shutting his lover up.

Mikael's body stiffened unhappily in his arms before relaxing somewhat  
suddenly, arms coming up and fingers scrunching in the back of Raphael's jacket.  
Mouths ate at each other somewhat frantically and Raphael felt his /own/ lips  
bruise against Mikael's teeth.

They broke apart somewhat breathlessly, and Raphael saw tears in Mikael's  
eyes. Silently, the smaller angel took Raphael's hand and led him to the futon.  
"Raphael-sama," he whispered. "Love me."

He couldn't help thinking of Omael's words and so he crushed his mouth to  
Mikael's again, body pressing Mikael's onto the sheets. "I do," he  
husked, moving his lips from full red lips to throat, biting junction of neck  
and shoulder just hard enough to leave a small reddish bruise, just lightly  
enough to make Mikael jerk and cry out. He shed clothes, helped his lover shed  
clothes. "Oh, Mikael, Mikael," he murmured onto flesh, "forgive  
me."

Mikael panted something wordless, hooking a leg over Raphael's hips, dazed  
gold eyes opening and talking to Raphael.

It turned out, Raphael realized not too much later, that a large amount of  
alcohol wasn't really needed. Oh, drunkenness, yes, the drunkenness of graceful  
limbs lost in motion, of a slender body pillowed on wings, of pale cheeks with  
colour spotted high, of stuttering voice stammering out phrases that may or may  
not be forgotten after that night, but would be repeated again. Raphael buried  
his face in Mikael's shoulder, body locked in love, and cried where no one would  
see him.  


* * *

  


[The Next Day]

They were woken in late morning -- thank the Most Holy for weekends -- by a  
memo.

Mikael read it with blurry eyes while Raphael rolled over and tried to go  
back to sleep. He knew it would fail when Mikael said, "The Metatron's  
called a staff meeting."

Raphael swore and tried to find his pants.

"Just remember," Mikael cautioned. "It wasn't you."

He smiled. "Dearest, I would so /not/ be the Professor if I confessed  
half the things I did."

The staff meeting was held, as always, in the top of the Metatron's Tower, a  
place Raphael always secretly referred to as Too Bloody High. There was  
something wrong about standing on a floor and looking out a window to see clouds  
several hundred feet below.

The Metatron was painting his nails as various teachers filed in and took  
their places. He ignored them until everyone was seated, then blew on his nails,  
and looked up. "We will be getting a message from the Leviathan in three  
minutes," he said.

Murmurs started up. It was always a matter of utmost security when they were  
noticed that they were going to be messaged by the Voice of the Morning Star.  
Everyone knew that someday, the message would be a declaration of war. They were  
usually relieved when the message turned out to be a request for Omael's return,  
or an invitation to an anniversary picnic or some other such, but the worry was  
always there.

He squeezed Mikael's hand under the table. Across the table, Gabriel was  
looking angry.

The air over the table blurred and a head-and-shoulders image of the  
Leviathan appeared. Mikael, being the newest teacher and having never seen him,  
gasped. Raphael could sympathize. The Leviathan even outshone Suriel in good  
looks, all blue curls and large eyes and eyelashes, yet with a masculine set to  
his jaw and a darkness that turned the beauty quite cold. Raphael had sometimes  
wondered if it was always the most beautiful ones who turned Unfaithful, as if  
good looks and rebellion went together. He twined his fingers through Mikael's.

"One of the Masks of Destiny has been stolen," the Leviathan said,  
voice faint with the distance of the sending. "Whoever it was altered the  
security tapes, but we were able to tell that it was indeed an angel. This is a  
major affront."

Mikael's head had jerked up and he sent a startled sending to Raphael. ~You  
altered the security tapes?!~

He shook his head, faintly, and wondered.

Gabriel rose and bowed. "It was turned in anonymously to my office  
sometime last night. We understand your anger quite well."

"It will, of course, be returned," the Metatron said.

"Of course," the Leviathan said, and smiled distantly. "Yet,  
how are we to take this blatant slap across the face? We wish a suitable  
recompensation."

Slowly, the Metatron rose. "With no knowledge of whoever did the action,  
we cannot bring the criminal to justice, of course. How can we rightfully give  
recompensense when we bear no knowing responsibility of the crime?"

Another distant smile. "True. And yet, We are angered."

Everyone held their breath. Here it was, the possibility of war, so very very  
close. If the Metatron refused to bend, it could be the beginning of the end.  
But if he did, they would be proving themselves cowards. Paradoxical bind.  
Raphael glared down the table at Azrael, who raised his eyebrows.

"We are also angered by the action, Leviathan. It is an affront to the  
School's policies as well, and so We very much understand your feelings."

The Leviathan's cold smile vanished into a blank expression and then he  
actually grinned. "Fair enough. Then We change our request: send the Mask  
back with Omael, who we will keep for a month. We believe that in the brief  
periods he is here, he cannot properly record Court life and portray it  
accurately, so we demand a longer period."

"It will be done. He shall leave this afternoon." Metatron bowed, a  
small show of respect, and the Leviathan's head similarly ducked.

Raphael breathed a very quiet sigh of relief.

Eyes raising, the Leviathan turned and looked directly at him. "And  
Medicus. Belial sends his greetings." The image blurred out.

Everyone was looking at Raphael, who blinked. "Oh. Um." So that had  
been it. He resisted the urge to smile a little goofily. He had always known  
there was still some kind of a goody-good inside the Demon Prince, someone who  
might remember Raphael. Well, he'd hoped, at any rate.

The Metatron's lips twisted. "Well, Raphael, seems you leave a trail of  
flame behind you." Raphael shrugged, hand behind his head.

Another brief, slightly confused silence, and Uriel spoke up. "You  
handled that well, Metatron. Nobody here lost face. /Most/ impressive." He  
grinned, and Raphael could /see/ the blush spread across the Metatron's cheeks.

And so, he thought, a happy ending was had by all.  


* * *

  


Or nearly. As they prepared for bed that night, Mikael turned to Raphael  
somewhat suspiciously. "Raphael-sama?"

"Hmm?" He was smiling and not able to stop. It was always such a  
/nice/ rush when these things worked out.

"Who is Belial?"

Oh shit. He managed to wipe the panic off his face, hopefully /before/ Mikael  
had noticed. "He's one of the four Demon Princes. He and I used to be  
friends."

Mikael's arms were crossed. "How /close/ friends?"

He could shoot himself. "It was centuries and centuries ago,  
Mikael!" he protested.

His lover's arms unfolded, but before he could sigh in relief, Mikael pointed  
to the side. "Couch, Raphael-sama."

Raphael knew better than to go to bed in an argument -- Mikael would get  
huffy for weeks. He sidled closer to Mikael's back, ran his hands over Mikael's  
wings. "It was a /long/ time ago, and yes, I was in love."

Gold eyes widened, hurt.

"But. He left me. I didn't think I'd ever fall in love again." He  
moved closer, nuzzled Mikael's hair. "I did. Even at the time, I thought I  
was being a fool. But Mikael... I fell in love with you."

"Raphael-sama..."

Smaller hands closed on Raphael's jacket, tight, as the youth turned and  
buried his face in Raphael's chest.

Raphael closed his eyes and thought about the future.


	7. If It's Not One Thing, It's Another

Everybody liked Suriel, or so it somehow seemed, anyways. He couldn't walk or  
fly anywhere without someone -- usually several someones -- stopping him for  
conversation, laughing with him about this or that. When someone needed artistic  
advice, they turned to Suriel -- although creative expression actually fell  
under Uriel's domain, Uriel didn't seem to mind and in fact often stopped by for  
advice himself. Everyone recognized the golden-haired beauty as he walked down  
the hall -- they'd laugh and gently tease him if he were dressed in his casual  
clothing, or console him on his duty if he wore his robes and carried his  
scythe. The female teachers even jokingly welcomed him into the ranks of the  
angelic mother-figures. Wherever he went, he'd hear "Suriel-sama!  
Suriel-sama!" called out in cheerful tones.

"Suriel-sama."

Her voice stopped him, not her words. Sharp, angry, revolted. That was all in  
there.

"Can I help you?" he asked, eyes searching. She was clearly a  
student, though not one of his -- of course ignoring potential protégés, he  
and Azrael didn't actually teach classes, although they did give seminars. Her  
face -- plain, framed by soft red hair -- might have gotten lost in the crowd at  
one of his seminars.

"Yes, you can," she said, lips pale. "You can tell me why the  
Most Holy lets a monster like you teach at the school."

Suriel's mouth opened and he couldn't find any words.

She was continuing. "It's not just what you do. You're the worst because  
you can slaughter innocents and then turn and run back home to make love to  
Azrael-sama. To laugh in the halls. To make art with a smile on your face. At  
least Azrael-sama doesn't pretend to be anything but what he is. You pretend to  
be nice... and everybody buys it. I don't. I know the truth." She stopped,  
looked him up and down with fierce green eyes, and said, "That is all.  
Thank you for your time, baby-killer Suriel-sama."

He was pushed aside as she strode past. Blue eyes wide, hair coming free from  
his braid, he stared after her, and couldn't feel his canvas slide from his  
grip.

 

* * *

When you have been Depressed once, it is far too easy to get Depressed again.  
Not little-d depressed as you find yourself with an extra seminar to teach on a  
subject you loathe, but big-D Depressed where darkness opens up in front of you  
like a pit and sucks your emotions away before you can even really feel them.

Once, not too much earlier, Suriel had returned home to find Azrael looking  
at the paintings he'd hidden.

They were laid out around the harsher Angel of Death -- images of carved  
empty chests, of sprays of blood, of blackness, of a child's smile. Azrael had  
looked up at Suriel and Suriel hadn't needed to say anything, just threw himself  
into his lover's arms and sobbed as though the world were coming to an end.  
Azrael had held him, and said nothing.

The next day, Suriel had secluded himself in the Wasteland to rail at God.

 

   


* * *

Mikael nodded along as Uriel explained his plight in a comedic story about  
one of the female angels refusing to teach a class of 'rowdy kids' about angel  
sexuality and passing the job to him -- sticking him with an extra seminar and  
not enough time to write his speech. Uriel was in the middle of angsting --  
loudly and comically, of course, as Suriel slipped in through the door. Uriel  
didn't miss a beat in turning to the blond-haired angel.

"Hey, Suriel! I gotta teach a seminar on angelic sexuality... do you  
think this is too risqué to start with? '...Many of you might think that  
holiness denies sexuality, but this is just not the case. If, after this seminar  
is over, you still don't believe me... well, see me alone in my office.' What do  
you think?"

"I don't know," Suriel said flatly.

Conversation ceased, and Mikael got his first good look on Suriel that day.  
Normally bright cornflower eyes were dim and slightly reddened and there was an  
exhaustion that he'd only seen on Suriel's face once.

What on earth could bring Suriel so close to snapping, so quickly? he  
wondered.

Azrael rose, brushing long black hair out of his eyes. "Suri. What's  
wrong?"

Suriel visibly hesitated -- another bad sign, Mikael noted, unable to stop  
himself leaning forward to listen, worried. Finally, Suriel explained.

When he finished, there was a long silence.

"Did you recognize her?" Azrael asked harshly.

Suriel shook his head, heavy braid pendulum-like behind him. "She had  
red hair and green eyes and was about so tall--" he held his hand at chest  
height, then bit his lip. "But... it doesn't matter. She's entitled to her  
opinion."

Azrael growled something uncomplimentary.

"Afriel," Raphael said suddenly. "It must be Afriel."

Mikael's eyes widened, and he shook his head. Afriel was one of his students,  
and was a cheerful, affectionate girl who always strove to do well. He couldn't  
imagine her being so --

"How do you know that, Raphael?" Uriel asked. "Are you a  
detective as well, now?"

Raphael flipped him off. "As you know, all new student profiles cross my  
desk at one time or another. There was one for Afriel. G-man marked her off as a  
potential trouble-maker." He leaned forward. "She fits the physical  
description, and get this: Before she came to the School, she lived with her  
human family. This included a little brother, age four. She and her family went  
to the beach and she made a sand fort for her brother to play in, then went  
swimming..."

"I remember the boy," Suriel said softly. "The sand fell on  
him and he suffocated. He had the softest brown hair..."

"This is where it gets interesting," Raphael said. "She saw  
you take the child's soul as she came back. I don't know how, but she did. And  
she doesn't blame herself or Most Holy for her brother's accident."

Lavender eyes narrowed. "She blames Death. You, Suriel."

 

   


* * *

Suriel undressed slowly, sliding his vest off his shoulders, playing with his  
belt. For ease of movement, he never really wore very much, but at that time, he  
took longer to undress than Azrael did.

Large hands brushed Suriel's away from his belt buckle and undid it for him.  
As his clothes were swept from him, Suriel shivered in the chill air. Standing  
pale and naked, he looked ghostlike, childlike.

Azrael brushed his knuckles along Suriel's left cheek, expression gentle.  
"Suri... you okay?"

He didn't trust his voice, and nodded instead, then leaned into the touch,  
eyes closing.

And was crushed against Azrael. It was suddenly a lot harder not to cry.  
Azrael always knew how sensitive he was to this type of thing.

Hands stroked along his back, up under his wings, curving to tickle the soft  
curve of down feathers. Suriel shivered, concentrated on that teasing-sharp  
sensation, and slowly the choking feeling of tears faded.

Azrael's hands slid lower again, curving to cup Suriel's rear firmly, pulling  
Suriel even more tightly against him. The dark Angel of Death kissed the top of  
his lover's head, breath stirring sun-bright hair as his hands continued to  
slide over smooth flesh. "Suri..." he breathed again. "Are you  
okay?"

"Mmm." Eyes hot, tongue darting out to wet suddenly dry lips,  
Suriel ran his hands over Azrael's muscled chest, letting his palms rest so the  
hard nubs of Azrael's nipples were centered in them. His breath caught as he  
slid his leg up, rubbing his thigh against Azrael's leg. "Yeah."

"Yeah?" Dark hair showered forward as their lips met.

Silence fell, except for the wet almost-sounds as their mouths worked  
together, then a sudden soft exhalation as Azrael bodily slung Suriel into his  
arms, striding over to the bed.

Another wet almost-silence, soft suckling noises, as Azrael slowly worked his  
way down Suriel's stomach with mouth, lips, teeth. And lower.

Golden hair spread around Suriel, and he let his arm rest against his  
stomach, let his fingers wind through Azrael's dark, straight locks, unable to  
quell the choking rush of love as he watched his lover's head move.

Blue eyes stuttered shut, and he smiled. "Yeah."

 

   


* * *

Mikael was Concerned.

Azrael had approached him that morning. "Mikael. D'you have a class  
today?" he'd asked.

Pouring himself a cup of tea, Mikael had shaken his head. "Not on  
Thursdays."

Azrael had grinned, and Mikael had started to worry right then. "That's  
perfect," Azrael said, smugly. "See, Suriel and I've been worried  
about you for a while. With your ability to get into the Demon Court, I'm  
betting that you'll be used for that again. And face it, kid, you have no  
fucking idea how to protect yourself."

"That's not true," Mikael had protested weakly, but it was no good,  
Azrael was clapping him on the shoulder and grinning.

"Well. Then Suri and I'll see you at five in the barraks arena."

* * *

It was five to five now, and Raphael wasn't being encouraging, sitting in the  
stands and munching popcorn.

While glaring up at his lover, Mikael saw Azrael slide into the seat beside  
Raphael. THAT was a relief! Azrael had been the one to rip Raphael's left wing  
off, after all.

Suriel dashed through the side entrance, still fiddling the end of his hair  
into an elastic. "Sorry I'm late!" he called.

He was wearing his white leg-baring tunic and looked even skinnier like that,  
almost child-gangly, a little angel waif. Mikael couldn't forget him screaming  
with grief and fury, throwing Raphael into the cliff face as if the muscular  
one-winged angel had weighed nothing.

His feeling of relief vanished.

Suriel smiled apologetically. "I hope this isn't too sudden..."

Mikael shrugged and tried to analyze how Suriel would come at him. "How  
do you want to do this?"

"I'll shove you,"

Suriel said, walking towards him. "You try to avoid it." Mikael  
nodded, tensing to dodge as Suriel came up to him --

And found himself on his back several feet away and airless.

"Are you okay?!" Suriel was rushing to him.

On his back, Mikael could see the nearby Theology building which overlooked  
the barraks. There was a student watching from one of the upper windows,  
surrounded by a haze of red hair.

 

   


* * *

When reviewing his course schedule, Suriel found a seminar penciled in that  
he knew he hadn't put there.

"Gabriel!" he protested, slapping hands down on the Administrator's  
desk. "I'm BUSY. I mean, you KNOW there's a flu epidemic in Mali right now,  
and --"

"My heart bleeds for you," Gabriel murmured, nose still buried in  
his paperwork. "Nevertheless, it's a new semester and the students have to  
know that the duty we're sometimes called upon to perform ISN'T tasteful."

Suriel tossed his hair, sighing anxiously. "Can't Azrael teach this  
one?"

Finally, Gabriel looked up from his work. "Suriel. Would I ask Azrael to  
go and receive lost souls of three- or four-year-old children?"

Suriel looked aghast. "Of COURSE not."

Gabriel smiled tersely. "Suriel. Would I ask Azrael to teach a bunch of  
lost first-year students about one of the harsh realities of angelic duty?"

He couldn't help pouting. "While I see your point, Gabriel, Azrael has  
given seminars on that subject before."

"Yes," Gabriel said. "But not to first-years. I'm SURE you  
remember what happened the last time a group of first-years irritated  
Azrael?"

"The bruises faded!"

"Suriel!!"

A smart Angel of Death knew when he'd lost. "Yes, Gabriel," he said  
meekly. "If you say so, Gabriel. May I please have the list of students who  
will be attending?"

Going back to his work, Gabriel slid a piece of paper over. "Here you  
are," he muttered, not looking up. "And don't do that thing with your  
eyes, Suriel. Their wobbliness will find no sympathy whatsoever."

 

   


* * *

Mikael finished writing on the board, brushed chalk-white hands, and picked  
up his notice paper, glancing over the names there. "Some of you will be  
away on Monday, for Suriel's seminar, I see." The class murmured, and he  
smiled. "Can I see a show of hands for those who are going or are  
interested? There's still a few seats left, so if you tell me now, I can hand in  
a revised class list. It should be an interesting seminar."

He paused, writing down a few extra names -- Sophia and Barchiel -- then  
smiled at his class brightly. "Class dismissed." And, as they rose,  
"Afriel? Can I see you after class, please?"

Afriel waited, taking the extra time to pack her bag. She smiled warmly as  
Mikael approached, and he wondered again at the difference between this Afriel  
and the one he'd heard about from Suriel, from Raphael.

But, then again, he mused, remembering a time not too long before, there were  
few people who were ever JUST what they appeared.

"You wanted to see me, Mikael-sama?" she asked, still smiling,  
leaning closer to him.

He nodded, tapping the notice paper to cover up his mild discomfort.  
"This paper says you're going to the seminar, but you didn't raise your  
hand in class. What's up?" He kept his tone mild.

Watching her face harden was like watching a glass break -- it was one thing,  
then it wasn't. "Well, Mikael-sama," she said, "I didn't sign up  
for it, and frankly, I don't want to go."

Mikael forced a laugh, trying to act companionable. "Sometimes you find  
yourself signed up for something you have no intention of being in, but it's  
better to attend anyway." He shrugged, remembering how he'd not chosen to  
be in Raphael's class but had been put there anyway. "These things probably  
have a bit of divine planning."

"I suppose," Afriel said, voice freezing, "that I have no  
choice but to attend, then."

Oooh, boy. "Keep your mind open," Mikael advised.

Afriel nodded shortly, then turned to go. She pushed past Raphael as she  
went.

The one-winged angel watched her go, then turned back with a slightly amused,  
slightly disturbed expression. "Mikael..."

Mikael sighed, letting his head rest agains the coolness of his desk. "I  
know, I know. I do NOT know what to do about her and Suriel."

"That's only part of the problem," Raphael said, slinging himself  
up to sit on Mikael's desk. Mikael rolled a little so his cheek rested on  
Raphael's hand. His lover stroked Mikael's lip with his thumb. "I saw the  
way she was looking at you. Afriel has a 'crush' on you."

The aqua-haired angel's head jerked up as shock lodged itself in his chest.  
"You...I..." His throat shut tight, and he thought frantically back on  
all the interactions he'd had with her. He couldn't see anything but amiability.  
"Raphael-sama!" He snagged the one-winged angel's collar with one hand  
and dragged him close. "That wasn't funny!" Mikael wailed, right into  
Raphael's face.

Raphael winced. "I wasn't joking," he protested, and Mikael claimed  
his lips to try and stop him talking more nonsense.

He could feel Raphael's slack disbelief, then, as expected, an enthusiastic  
response that shot right to Mikael's groin. It sometimes seemed unfair that  
Raphael had never lost the ability to make his toes CURL like that. Far too  
often he used that ability to shut Mikael up.

Well. Mikael smiled against Raphael's lips before continuing his determined  
assault. He might not be as experienced as his one-winged lover, but he'd had a  
VERY good teacher. And turnabout was fair play.

Mikael cheered inwardly as Raphael pulled back, breathless, and looked at him  
with hot eyes before pulling him out of the teachers chair and up onto the desk.  
Onto Raphael.

For a moment, the fear of classroom sex rose up, but then he looked at  
Raphael, splayed out under him, mouth half open, one hand raised to trace  
circles over Mikael's hips.

Oh well, Mikael decided, sucking on Raphael's throat, sometimes you really  
did just have to go with the flow.

 

   


* * *

In one of the upper halls was a corridor which hosted some of Suriel's art.

This in itself was not a rare thing, but these portraits in particular were  
memorials. Children's faces, ranging from premature fetuses to young adults.  
Some smiled, some laughed, but most gazed down with an unusual seriousness.

More paintings were added on a monthly bases.

He didn't paint all of them, of course, there were too many, but he painted  
those he noticed the most.

And, frequently, when he needed to think, just to get away, Suriel would  
wander along the hall, looking up at their faces.

There were signs posted on every empty space.

'This is the Truth.'

'Baby-killer.'

'Soul-stealer.'

'Remember the Children!'

And so on.

Suriel reeled, catching himself against the wall, golden hair clouding around  
him. Eyes darkened, squeezed shut.

Then opened again.

Slowly, Suriel began to take the signs down.

 

   


* * *

Mikael looked around the lounge and moved uneasily to pour himself some tea.  
"Azrael." The dark-haired Angel of Death was sitting on the couch,  
broodingly staring into a cup of something dark that reeked of strong alcohol.  
Mikael decided to stay on the other side of the room. "...Where's  
Suriel?"

"In his Studio." For a long moment, it didn't look as though he  
were going to elabourate. Then, in a sudden flurry of motion, he tossed his  
drink back and slammed the glass down. "He won't come out. Get me another  
shot, kid? It's the unlabeled blue bottle on the far left."

Somewhat uneasily, Mikael ventured near enough to fetch Azrael's shot glass.  
"What ARE... you drinking?"

"Don't ask, or I'll tell you."

A long silence filled the room as Mikael put four fingers in -- looked like  
Az needed it, and the Angel of Death could manage it, after all -- and then  
Mikael sat across from Azrael, sliding the drink across the table. "Maybe  
he just got an idea for a painting and wanted to get it on paper?"

"With that look on his face? Fuck that." Azrael tossed the entire  
shot back in one go. "I know my Suri. It's that girl."

It would be, wouldn't it. Mikael sighed, thought of Afriel's transformation  
from friendship to anger back in the classroom. "If you want, I'll talk to  
R... to the Professor."

Azrael gave him a Glance. "I'd HOPE so. Raphael DOES have the authority  
to expel her, but..." he shook his head. "Fuck. I don't know. Ask him,  
anyway. Suri... I don't like..." he stopped, and Mikael didn't ask for  
clarification.

 

   


* * *

Delicate fingers selected a size three brush and mixed red into the burnt  
umber.

Suriel's eyes were distant as he looked at the canvas, seeing what would be  
there.

A few quick strokes, and...

"Riki," he called softly. "Riki."

 

   


* * *

Raphael leaned forward, listening to the latest story. "I wouldn't be  
surprised if it /had/ been her driving Suriel into hiding," he said when  
Mikael had finished. The one-winged angel sighed and raked a hand through his  
already-mussed hair. "It would /have/ to be this complex, wouldn't  
it?"

Mikael bit his lip. "If... I mean, is it grounds for expulsion?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes," Raphael agreed. "But...  
Gabriel left a post-it note on her file. 'Might someday be added to the ranks of  
Angels of Death. See if she shows signs'. You /know/ we just don't have enough  
to collect all the necessary souls. If we have a chance of getting  
another..."

Golden eyes slid shut at Mikael leaned against the desk, shocked. "I  
think she's giving Suriel a nervous breakdown. Again."

A pause, and then Raphael shut the file. "Let's go see Gabriel."

 

   


* * *

Suriel heard voices from the other room... Azrael, of course, and Cherior,  
who was coming to visit more often. The redheaded boy was talking loudly about  
some trouble he and someone else had gotten up to.

"...Fuck, she could be my sister or something, she and I think so  
much..."

Silence for a moment, then a knock on the studio door. "Suriel?"  
Azrael, quiet.

"I'm working," Suriel murmured, eyes returning to the canvas.

A moment where he was unable to see beyond the image and -- a painting  
trance, as colour and image and meaning blurred.

Suriel dipped size fives into white, blue, red, yellow, and mixed out a flesh  
tone.

 

   


* * *

Oddly, Gabriel's office was the most accessible place on campus. It seemed to  
be the same distance away from... well, everywhere. It was one of the little  
things that made Mikael suspect that Gabriel wasn't as unapproachable as he  
pretended to be.

There was a new sign on Gabriel's door: 'Is it important? Then don't bother  
me, I'm busy.'

Then again... Mikael smiled wryly.

Gabriel didn't look up as they entered. "Did you read the sign? Good. Go  
away."

"It's important," Raphael said.

A pause. Gabriel signed something, then put his pen down and looked up.  
"Okay. I'm listening."

Together, Mikael and Raphael pieced together the incidents they'd heard of.  
Gabriel sat quietly, listening, rubbing his temples.

When they'd finished, he sighed explosively. "I just... don't know. I  
just don't know." Mikael's stomach clenched at that, and Gabriel was going  
on -- "When I first saw her... it was such a relief to see someone with  
such strong potential. Dark-edged, with the mental strength of all the Deaths. I  
think she can manage it. But if she's harassing Suriel..." Gabriel fiddled  
with his pen for a moment. "The thing that bothers me... if her entire  
circle of belief... at the very least, her halo..."

Worry squirmed in Mikael's belly and he glanced at Raphael. ~I've never seen  
him this... this...~

~This much with his knickers in a twist? He doesn't know what to do, ~  
Raphael answered in soft mindspeech. ~Most of the time, he knows what to do.  
He's Administration, and we're severely low on angels capable of  
soul-collection. It's part of his JOB to find new ones. But what Afriel's  
doing... well, if she were bothering Azrael, Gabriel'd kick us out of his office  
for wasting his time. Azrael's got thicker skin than a pumpkin.~ That came with  
a mental image and Mikael concentrated on keeping his face straight. A wink from  
Raphael. ~ But I'm not sure, ~ Raphael murmured, thoughtfully, ~that Gabriel can  
forgive someone deliberately hurting Suriel.~

Mikael blinked, startled. ~I didn't think they really got along...~

A mental chuckle wafted from Raphael to Mikael like cinnamon. ~Oh, G-man's  
just grumpy. He likes Suriel. Why wouldn't he?~

Gabriel had fallen silent, eyes closed, then sat back. "I signed her up  
for the seminar," he said heavily. "We'll see how that goes. If her  
behaviour continues after that..."

Expulsion.

 

   


* * *

It was Sunday night before Suriel finally emerged from his studio, eyes  
slightly glazed, groping along the wall.

Azrael took one look at his lover and already pale lips thinned. He strode  
over, scooped the unprotesting blond angel into his arms, and carried him to the  
baths. Suriel yawned and snuggled as he was stripped and deposited into a tub of  
hot water.

Lethargically, he washed himself, wondering semi-somnambulantly if he'd  
manage to get his hair done.

It was a moot point. Azrael returned with dinner, which he put out of reach  
of Suriel, and then rolled up his sleeves and began slowly washing Suriel's  
hair.

It felt nice, but Suriel, at this point, could smell the food.

"Az'ael..."

"After you're out of the tub."

He was good and hungry by the time Azrael had helped him out of the bath and  
sat him down to dry his hair. The darker Angel of Death had to stop that task  
three times to refill Suriel's plate.

By the time that all was done, Suriel wasn't able to lift his own eyelids.

"Do you have your seminar prepared?" Azrael asked softly, putting  
Suriel in bed.

Suriel thought of his perfect painting and smiled sleepily. "Mmm. 'S all  
ready."

 

   


* * *

Mikael tried to teach for ten minutes before giving up and dismissing his  
class so he could go to the seminar. He felt vaguely guilty, but he was too  
nervous to teach, really. Or so he told himself.

He slipped in through the back door and nearly bumped into the Metatron, who  
was leaning against the wall. The Voice of Most Holy wiggled his fingers at  
Mikael then went back to filing his nails.

Mikael leaned against the wall too. "What are you doing here?"

The Metatron shrugged. "If He tells me to go, I go. I assume something  
will happen that'll need His permission." He blew on his nails and giggled.  
"Didja know if you layer Transparent Pearl and Sparkleberry, you get this  
nifty glowing coral effect?"

Politely, Mikael glanced at the nails of the most powerful angel in  
existence. They did, actually, glow. Mikael couldn't hide a smile.

Suriel stepped onstage, placed a covered canvas to one side, and smiled out  
at the audience somewhat vaguely. "Why do children have to die?"

Silence fell abruptly.

"I think everyone asks that." Bright blue eyes slid shut. "I'm  
not Most Holy. I couldn't satisfy everyone with an answer. It's not easy, even  
for us. But without us, some souls would be unable to find their way to Most  
Holy, or... elsewhere. The longer they remain on earth, the more their  
personality fades until they become nothing, completely destroyed."

He opened his eyes. "All angels can appeal to a human soul. There are  
only a few who can be this guide, however. These soul-collectors are called the  
Angels of Death. Azrael and myself are the oldest and most capable; there are  
only a few others. Most angels go insane, you see, seeing so much pain."

Suriel took a deep breath. "As such, it's a matter of duty..."

As Suriel talked on, Mikael glanced around the seminar hall for Afriel. He  
saw her -- sitting beside the unmistakable form of Cherior.

Mikael blinked. Twice. "Cherior... and..." he turned, wide-eyed.  
"They know each other?"

"They need each other," The Metatron said seriously, and giggled.  
"Scared yet?"

And Suriel talked on. Watching Afriel, Mikael saw her face grow stormier and  
stormier, until...

"Can I take any questions," Suriel asked, finally.

Afriel rose immediately. "Oh, yes. How do the CHILDREN feel about being  
taken away, too young to know what's going on?!"

Her voice rang in the hall, and to his surprise, Mikael saw Suriel nodding as  
if he'd expected the question.

The Angel of Death bent and picked up the canvas. "Let me tell you of a  
boy I had to carry home," he said, and slid the covering cloth off the  
painting to reveal the portrait of a young boy with short brown hair."

Mikael watched colour drain from Afriel's face.

"This boy," Suriel said calmly, "was buried alive at the  
beach. He could feel the grains in his lungs as they filled with sand. It was  
dark, hot, and horrifying. And then, suddenly, nothingness. All he could feel  
was that memory. He was hysterical. I--"

"You BASTARD!" Afriel shouted, face livid. "You fucking PRICK!  
You took him away from me and you dare -- you DARE--!"

She was scrambling down rows, over chairs, pushing students out of her way.  
Looking alarmed, Cherior scrambled after.

Beside Mikael, the Metatron was glowing softly.

"You had no right to touch him," Afriel shrieked, trying to pull  
herself up on stage. "He was MINE, do you hear me, it should have been  
ME!"

Her voice broke two octaves on the last word, and a brief silence fell.

"Nee-chan," a quiet voice said, tearful, "don' yell. You  
always yell."

She froze. Cherior caught up, and stopped too.

A young boy stepped out from behind Suriel, one hand clinging to the angel's  
thigh, the other hand moving his thumb inexorably to his mouth. The canvas was  
blank.

"Riki?" Afriel didn't move. "...Riki?"

Suriel knelt, ran a gentle hand over the child's hair. "Go on."

Slowly, the softly glowing child took a few steps towards his sister, who  
still remained frozen in the act of hoisting herself on stage.

Cherior shrugged and gave her a shove.

She met her brother halfway across the stage, flinging herself down to hold  
him to her. "Riki, Riki..."

The whole hall was silent as the siblings embraced.

Then Riki pulled away, placed a kiss on his sister's cheek, and turned,  
running back to Suriel. The Angel of Death scooped him up. Wet nose nuzzling  
into Suriel's neck, the child faded away.

Mikael clutched the wall to support himself and let himself breathe.  
Sympathetically, the Metatron patted his shoulder.

On stage, Suriel was suddenly all business, stepping back to the podium.  
"That concludes the seminar," he said, then turned and handed the  
portrait to Afriel.

 

 

* * *

"And that was that?" Raphael asked dubiously over the rim of his  
teacup.

Curling into Raphael's side, Mikael shrugged. "I can't see ANYONE  
bearing a grudge after a miracle like that, Raphael-sama."

Azrael turned another set of cards over in his game of Solitaire. "I  
dunno why the fuck she had a problem, anyway. Anyone who knows Suriel knows how  
much he loves kids. Fuck, if he--"

The door slammed open and Suriel stalked in, obviously seething with anger.  
He was stripping his vest off as he went, and no wonder -- his hair and upper  
torso were coated with something white and clumpy.

One moment he was seated, the next, cards were scattered, and Azrael was on  
his feet. "Suri! The hell--"

"Whipped cream," Suriel spat. "They put a bucket of whipped  
cream over my classroom door. I'm going to kill them one of these days, I really  
am." He stalked into the kitchenette.

"It's just a prank," Raphael called, grinning. "I've seen  
worse. I mean, I've DONE worse --"

"I don't make idle threats!" Suriel shouted back.

Azrael had a funny look on his face, dark eyes hot, a grin lingering. Body  
moving with a lithe, animal grace, he stalked after Suriel.

Raphael rolled his eyes at Mikael, shrugging and jerking his thumb towards  
the lounge door.

Laughter from outside.

Mikael sighed, strode over, and yanked the door open. Cherior glared back at  
him with his usual distain and Afriel smiled brightly, sweet-eyed.

~Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth~ Raphael murmured into Mikael's mind. It  
was suddenly hard to keep a straight face.

But keep it he did. "Did you want something?" he asked pointedly.

Inexplicably, Afriel blushed. "No, Mikael-sama. Thank you for your  
time." She turned on her heel and walked away, very straight backed.  
Cherior shrugged a peer's shrug at Mikael, and followed.

The aqua-haired angel sighed and shut the door just as Suriel cried out from  
the kitchenette, a choked moan.

Colour rushed up into his face at the noise and he saw Raphael watching him  
from the couch.

~Honestly, Raphael-sama,~ he grumbled, embarrassed. ~If it's not one thing,  
it's another.~

~I agree entirely.~ Raphael smiled velvet and patted his lap. ~C'mere,  
Mi-ka-e-l.~

Mikael signed in mock irritation, shaking his head. ~Antics, antics.  
Everybody's up to something~ he chided, and gave in.


	8. Temper, Temper

Cherior scowled deeply. Yet another day of Miss Priss droning showing off for  
the class and Mikael-sama. This time Devecia was reading aloud a poem to the  
class. Cherior yawned indiscreetly into one hand.

"Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,  
Alone and palely loitering;  
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,  
And no birds sing."

The girls in the class and not a few of the boys were paying rapt attention  
to the student standing at his desk, reading from a slender volume of Keats.  
Cherior's lip twisted into a smirk and he slouched more determinedly in his  
chair, watching Devecia out of the corner of his eye. Devecia's voice rose and  
fell as he read the poem. It was pleasant sort of tenor - the kind that Cherior  
didn't so much mind listening to if he was _forced_ to endure poetry.

Excluding his tolerable voice, Cherior felt the urge to throttle the pompous  
ass. Flipping his dark green hair over his shoulder, preening for the class and  
Mikael-sama - just who did the little peacock think he was? An arrogant,  
good-for-nothing sonuvabitch who needed to be taught a few lessons.

Cherior cracked his knuckles. Sign me up.

"And there we slumber'd on the moss,  
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,  
The latest dream I ever dream'd  
On the cold hill side."

Mikael-sama was giving him the evil eye. Cherior smiled lazily and stretched  
a bit in his seat. Devecia had everybody eating out of his hand. Pansy ass.  
Poetry was for punks, and this was a stupid poem anyway. A knight gets tricked  
by some chick who makes him a ghost and blah blah blah blah. Cherior would have  
much rather been studying Shakespeare again. That, at least, was exciting stuff.  
Swordfights and tragedy and murders galore. _That_ was the way literature  
should be.

Devecia delivered the last line of the poem and Mikael-sama thanked him in  
what Cherior felt to be an overly gratuitous manner. Fuck, it was just a stupid  
babbling poem. Not something to get emotional about, unlike Azrael's new Scythe,  
which was truly a piece of art. Deadly art, but art nonetheless. Cherior would  
have given just about anything to be able to be able to swing it, just once.

Devecia was looking at him again. Goddammit, he _hated_ it when the  
freak stared at him, and it seemed like he was doing it all the time. "Quit  
looking at me," Cherior hissed.

The brat just raised one midnight green eyebrow. "I'm just facing the  
front of the classroom. You're the one sitting sideways in your seat."

Cherior also hated being spoken down to. "Well, fuck off. I can sit  
however I want. Just quit staring, pansy." Devecia's face remained  
impassive, much to Cherior's annoyance.

"A-HEM. Gentlemen, please save it for after class," Mikael-sama  
reprimanded in a quelling tone. Cherior made a half-hearted attempt towards  
being respectful. There was no use in getting Mikael-sama's pinfeathers in a  
twist this early in the week. If he got pissed off now, he might rescind  
Cherior's mentoring hours with Azrael this week. That was something that Cherior  
just couldn't stand for when there was a beautiful Scythe awaiting his  
adoration.

"You can sit however you want, hmm?" Devecia murmured, having  
leaned forward so close that Cherior could feel his breath in his ear. He  
shivered involuntarily and then did what was fast becoming a habit - he turned  
in his seat and yanked hard on Devecia's long locks, bringing his face forward  
so Cherior could glare at him at close-range.

"I do _whatever_ I want, _whenever_ I want, priss. Now shut  
your mouth or I'll shut it for you," Cherior growled, ignoring the excited  
murmurs of the classroom and Mikael-sama's icy glare.

That arrogant bitch had the nerve to purse his lips. "With a kiss? How  
sweet. Didn't know you liked it that way, Cherior."

Cherior punched him without a second thought, taking great pleasure on the  
altogether satisfying sound of his fist connecting with Devecia's jaw.  
Mikael-sama was there in a second, pulling Cherior away and yelling some very  
angry words.

Shit. There went Scythe adoration hours.

   


* * *

Devecia knocked on the door to the teachers' lounge. Mikael-sama had told him  
to come here to get some attention for what was already becoming a sizeable  
bruise on his jaw. He'd never been in the lounge before, though he'd heard the  
usual tall-tales about the teachers getting it on in there and other wildly  
improbable things. He never could see why people would spread gossip that was so  
obviously _false_.

The door opened as he was about to knock a second time, leaving him with his  
fist in midair, which was a rather stupid position to be in, especially when  
faced with the blonde vision who beckoned him inside. "May I help you,  
Devecia?" Suriel-sama asked, his tone reminding Dev of warm summer evenings  
and caramel apples.

Devecia suddenly felt quite bashful before the exceedingly beautiful  
Suriel-sama. "Well..I...you see, Mikael-sama sent me down. I think it would  
be good if I put some ice on this." He pointed to his bruised jaw and had  
to remind himself to breathe as Suriel-sama's eyes fluttered in shock.

"My dear, what happened to you this afternoon?" Suriel asked, not  
giving him time to answer. "Sit, sit, and I'll get something for your  
jaw."

Dev almost groaned. Oh, he had already gotten something for his jaw. He had  
had the dubious pleasure of watching Cherior smile in an altogether disturbing  
fashion after socking him. He didn't know if bad karma applied to not entirely  
mortal beings, but it seemed that he was cursed from the day he had walked into  
class and had sat behind the irritable redhead.

For one thing, Cherior was rather classically handsome. Still a bit gawky,  
perhaps, but possessing of absolutely beautiful flame red hair, which had  
started to curl quite becomingly after Cherior had apparently forgotten to  
maintain his crew cut. But pretty as Cherior was - and he was _quite_  
pretty - he still had some serious attitude problems. As if this afternoon  
hadn't made that one crystal clear.

He yelped a bit in shock as cold came into contact with his cheek. Suriel was  
looking at him a bit strangely, and Devecia hurried to wipe the dopey  
daydreaming smile off his face. "Thank you very much, Suriel-sama," he  
said politely.

Suriel-sama sat down right next to him, and Dev fought down the screaming  
impulse to scoot away. Long artist-fingers tangled with his, bring Devecia's  
attention to Suriel-sama with a firm squeeze of Dev's hand. "You didn't  
answer my question, my dear. What happened this afternoon?"

Dev closed his eyes in pain, both physical and emotional.  
"Cherior." He didn't really feel that needed elaboration.

Suriel-sama actually winced and Dev had the sinking feeling that he was  
really in trouble. After all, _everybody_ loved Suriel-sama and Suriel-sama  
loved everybody. Well, almost everybody, it seemed. The golden-haired angel  
gently removed the ice pack from Devecia's cheek to check the swelling of the  
student's jaw.

Suriel tsk-tsked under his breath, his cornflower blue eyes soft with pity.  
"I hope this isn't indicative of the new semester, Devecia. Ardouisur is  
going to be quite upset with you when you get home. You'll be pulling weeds for  
a month when she finds out you got into a fight."

Dev groaned and rested the uninjured side of his face in one hand.  
"That's if I'm lucky. It's so unfair - it wasn't even a real fight. I just  
got slugged for talking back to Cherior instead of meekly going along with his  
temper." He felt even more morose, if that were possible, as another idea  
occurred to him. "Ari will probably make me clean out all the  
greenhouses...I'm doomed. All for one irritable redhead. _So_ unfair."

Suriel-sama was giving him a weird look again, which strangely enough  
immediately transformed back into pity. If his face hadn't been throbbing, Dev  
would have thought about it more. As it was, his jaw hurt like hell and he  
politely excused himself from Suriel's presence. He needed to get some rest  
before Ari locked him in the nearest greenhouse with a broom.

   


* * *

Ardouisur, strangely enough, did not comment on the prominent and quickly  
purpling bruise. It made Devecia feel edgy...he waited for her furious outburst  
as he unpacked his school bag, but it didn't come. They made dinner together,  
and Dev felt more than a little skittish as Ardouisur cut up vegetables and meat  
with a very sharp knife, but she didn't reprimand him then, either. He felt  
certain that she would tear into him over dinner, but they ate in quiet  
peacefulness at the little table in the sunroom.

He just couldn't take it anymore. "Aren't you going to yell at me?"  
he demanded, thunking his water glass down at the table.

Ardouisur never missed a beat. "Yes. Be careful with that glass. It's  
part of a set." She continued to eat, seemingly unflappable.

Devecia was aghast and more than a little confused. Her lavender eyes held no  
reproach whatsoever, and he just couldn't figure it out. She ought to be  
breaking some sound barriers by now while thoroughly dressing him down for his  
idiocy. "You...aren't angry?" he asked tentatively.

Ardouisur flicked a purple strand behind her head, and continued to  
appreciate her chocolate mousse. "Suriel told me what happened. I fail to  
see why I should be upset."

Devecia dropped his fork and it clattered noisily onto the china plate.  
"Well, Ari, he only decked me. Nothing major, you know," he said  
sarcastically.

"Are you dead?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you dead?"

"Well, _no_."

"Then you learned something important today. Don't irritate Azrael's  
protégé and you won't get smacked. Azrael and Cherior are two peas in a pod,  
and it's unwise to annoy either of them. Even if they're both quite  
lovely."

Dev slipped into dreamworld for an instant. Very lovely, indeed. He was  
jerked out of his daydreaming as he felt warm hands unbuttoning his school  
uniform. "Emergency," Ardouisur said shortly. "I'm sure you  
understand."

Devecia, a child whose conception had been aided and blessed by Ardouisur,  
could never say no to her. Not when there were other women like his mother, who  
had so desperately wanted a child of her own.

Though he would be the first to assert that making love to his landlady was  
somewhat disconcerting, it seemed alright as she straddled his thighs and  
whispered blessings in his ear. It seemed more than okay to give himself over to  
her softness and the blissful rapture of completion as she worked the most  
delicate of blessing - the creation of new life.

Hot and still panting, she collapsed against him, and he knew that she was  
merely catching her breath and would resist cuddling. He wondered if there was  
anyone for whom lovemaking was a pleasure and not a duty for Ardouisur. /Is  
there anyone you love?/ he asked gently, feeling pleasantly drowsy.

/Oh, I like the young ones with red hair and green eyes and horrible  
tempers./

It took him a minute to figure out that she was making fun of him. /I know  
it's a stupid idea, Ari, but I'm really sort of taken with him. Underneath all  
that macho bullshit he might even be a fairly decent person./

/Plus you want to jump him,/ she added, cocking an eyebrow at him and  
smiling.

/Plus I want to jump him,/ he agreed cheerfully. /But that's not going to  
happen until Cherior figures out why he hates me so much./

Which, he thought as his jaw began to ache again, would likely be no time  
soon.

   


* * *

Cherior stabbed the air with a fencing foil. It was late evening, with the  
sun low in the sky. Cherior really liked it here out on the hill behind the  
Dormitory. It was solitary and quiet, and alone was just how he wanted to be.

"Do you fence much?"

It figured that the Priss would intrude even here. "No, I never really  
got a chance to learn on Earth. I was signed up for lessons and everything  
but..."

"What happened?"

_Blood everywhere. The sickeningly sweet, coppery smell clinging all around  
him._

Cherior looked over at Devecia. The setting sun burnished some of the green  
hair to olive. Cherior sank against the trunk of a nearby tree, the foil cradled  
in his arms. "Things happened. I came here."

Devecia sat down next to him, their shoulders and thighs touching. _I'm not  
moving,_ Cherior thought. _He'll have to move first. Dammit, this is_ my  
_space._

"How did you become an angel student?"

Cherior snapped out of his languor and turned furious eyes on Devecia.

"What kind of fucking personal question is _that_? For the darling of  
the class, you're pretty stupid when you put your mind to it."

Devecia didn't react, which only made Cherior angrier. Didn't anything faze  
this guy? "You don't have to tell me. I was just asking," Devecia said  
casually.

Cherior clenched his fists and thought hard about pummeling the boy. It could  
never be that casual. "Fuck you. You first."

Devecia glanced at him. "Pneumonia. My body didn't respond to the  
antibiotics. I died pretty quickly."

Cherior deeply envied the peace, the sheer _uncaringness_ of the  
green-haired boy's words.

_Blood. His parents slumped in gharish positions over the furniture.  
Gasping moans, gurgling sounds._

"When I was fifteen, I came home from boarding school for the  
holidays," Cherior began slowly, still doubting the wisdom of telling this  
to anyone. "The house was quiet, and I went to my father's study. My  
parents had been shot, and before I could do anything, a gun went off again. The  
bullet lodged in my chest, and all I could do was sit there and bleed and watch  
them die. And then I saw him."

"The murderer?" Devecia asked, his voice impossibly soft.

"In a manner of speaking. I saw an angel with black wings and black  
robes, holding a scythe in his hands. He ripped out my parents' souls and then  
he turned to me." Cherior's voice was cold and even. He heard the hitch in  
Devecia's breathing, and took a perverse pleasure in being able to get such a  
reaction out of the normally placid boy.

"But before he touched me, he stopped. He swore a lot, and I almost  
wanted to laugh, because here I was dying and Death himself was cursing like a  
sailor. And then..."

_"Shit. You're an innocent. And Suriel isn't here. Fuck. Sorry, kid.  
Nobody else here to do this but me."_

"And then?"

_The cool metal of the scythe brushed his face and Cherior leaned forward,  
longing for the sharp edge, longing for a way to stop the pain._

"Are you really in such a hurry? Fuck, kid, your parents deserved this,  
but not you. There's nothing wrong with you except that they didn't love  
you."

His lips formed the words "I know." It was hard to speak...blood  
was trickling out of his mouth, and damn, it was just everywhere.

"Not just yet. I'll make you a deal."

Cherior looked up into the cold beauty's face. If he could gasp anymore, he  
would have. He never would have thought that Death could be so beautiful.

"How would you like to be like me?"

In that moment, with his lifeblood spilling out, inches away from death, he  
found that almost funny. "Why the hell not," he sighed.

"I wasn't supposed to be there. So Death made me a deal. He said  
that people who die in ways they shouldn't sometimes get another chance, if they  
have the courage to take it."

_"That's the spirit. Okay, kid. Won't lie to you. This is going to  
hurt worse than anything you've ever imagined. But if you make it..."_

"What?"

"You'll have eternity." And with that, the angel Azrael put his  
hand over the center of Cherior's chest and ripped out his soul.

Devecia stared at him with a mixture of pity and awe. The awe fed Cherior's  
ego, but the pity made him gnash his teeth. "It's a stupid story and you'd  
be just as stupid to go around repeating it anyone. Besides which, what the fuck  
are you still doing here? This is my place and I don't like people  
intruding," Cherior spat, the rush of remembered agony tearing him up  
inside and leaving only impotent anger in its place.

"You want to make Azrael-sama proud of you, don't you." It was a  
statement, not a question.

"Don't psychoanalyze me, okay? I get enough from the School shrink  
trying to figure me out. I don't need your shit," Cherior hissed, standing  
abruptly.

"Sorry," Devecia murmured, not looking away from the redhead's  
eyes.

_They didn't love you._

They didn't love you.

"Like you care," Cherior mumbled, starting down the hill back the  
Dormitory.

   


* * *

Cherior sunk his face into his hands. There Nareba was up at the front of the  
room, spitefully tattling on him. It didn't matter whether or not he'd actually  
done anything - no one was going to believe him innocent. And Mikael-sama was  
going to take away his mentoring hours _again_. Dammit. He wished he had  
actually done something to warrant punishment instead of minding his own  
business and ignoring that annoying little slip of a girl.

A hand touched his shoulder. "It'll be okay," Devecia murmured.  
"I know you didn't do it." Cherior's eyes followed the gentle swaying  
of the Priss's dark green hair as Devecia strode up to the front of the room and  
respectfully informed Mikael-sama that despite Nareba's assurances to the  
contrary, there was no way that Cherior could have said the things she claimed.

Mikael-sama was quite clearly more open to what the green-haired boy had to  
say. "Why is that, Devecia?"

The Priss shrugged. "He was with me all morning. I can tell you that at  
no point in time did he harass Nareba as she says."

Mikael-sama looked distinctly weary. "Let's drop the matter for now. We  
have an assembly in half an hour, so until then, I want everyone to look over  
their mathematics homework for this afternoon."

Cherior, sitting sideways in his seat as usual, scowled at Devecia as the boy  
sat down. "What the hell did you do that for? It wasn't any of your  
business, priss."

Devecia raised one calm green eyebrow. "He would have taken away this  
week's mentoring hours."

"Why should that matter to you?" Cherior muttered, dragging a hand  
through his tousled red curls.

"We're friends, aren't we?" Devecia said matter-of-factly, laying a  
hand on Cherior's shoulder again.

"_Classmates_," Cherior corrected, shaking off Devecia's  
touch. Why was the boy always touching him, for crying out loud? "Who'd  
want to be friends with such a pansy-ass priss?" Even as the words tumbled  
out of his mouth, his mind was working furiously over the concept. Devecia had  
helped him…apparently out of the goodness of his heart. Listened to him, too.  
Cherior distrusted such kindness, but still…

Out of the corner of his eye, he mentally traced the soft waves of the green  
locks, the curve of the pale cheek.

Cherior swallowed and turned to face forward in his seat. _I hate that  
posturing little priss. Always sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.  
Really, who would want to be friends with him?_

Cherior made some pretense of checking over his math homework. _Not me. Not  
me._

_I…_

   


* * *

Cherior found himself thinking about impromptu dance steps as he was walking  
down the hall. The sounds of a violin and flute threaded their way into the  
Azrael's dojo from the courtyard, and Cherior went to the window to have a peek  
at the musicians.

It just figured. The Priss (Cherior had started to capitalize that in his  
mind) was sitting underneath a tree playing a flute, and someone he vaguely  
recognized from the second-year class was accompanying him on violin. Giving  
credit where credit was due, they were more than competent and the redhead found  
himself tapping on the windowsill in beat to the music.

They started into a slower song, a wistful and romantic sort of melody that  
Cherior might have enjoyed had he allowed himself to do so. Without thinking  
much about it, he descended a staircase and waited behind a pillar, watching  
Devecia and the other student play together under the watch of twilight. It was  
quiet, as most everyone had gone home for dinner.

The last notes of the song faded away, and Cherior stepped out into the dying  
light of the evening. They apparently didn't see him, because the older student  
was being grabby with Devecia's person and the green-haired student was having  
none of it. "Stop it," Devecia hissed.

When the violinist refused to listen, Cherior cracked his knuckles slowly and  
deliberately, startling the pair. "Maybe you'd better leave," Cherior  
suggested in a less-than-amiable tone of voice. Apparently news traveled fast,  
because the boy turned tail and ran, violin in tow.

Devecia stood, and after a moment, gently touched Cherior's hand with his  
own. "Thank you. That was kind of you."

Cherior shook off his touch as if he were a repulsive insect. "I didn't  
do it for you, stupid."

Emerald eyes stared at him, unblinking. "So  
why did you do it?"

Cherior shifted from one foot to another. Stupid Priss always asked too many  
questions. "For the only worthwhile reason. Because I wanted to." He  
turned on his heel and strode out of the courtyard, never sparing a glance for  
the green-haired boy he left behind.

   


* * *

Devecia saw Raphael-sama's lips tightened as the Professor took in his  
injuries. Dev ached everywhere, it was true - but it had been worth it. He  
didn't really think that Raphael-sama would see it that way, though, so he kept  
his mouth shut.

"It was Cherior, wasn't it?" the Professor asked finally, his tone  
somber.

Devecia closed his eyes, willing his face to be serene. "No sir, I just  
fell down the stairs." A blatant lie - one didn't get bruises the size and  
shape of fingerprints on one's wrists from a banister. But it had been worth it,  
and his silence would be worth it.

He heard Raphael-sama sigh and the bed creaked as the Professor perched on  
the side of it. "You don't have anything to fear, Devecia. I promise you  
that if you name your assailant, I will expel him from the school and you'll  
never need fear again."

Which was exactly why Devecia couldn't tell him who had done it. He looked  
calmly at Raphael-sama. "It was just a simple accident, Professor. You  
can't expel a staircase."

Raphael-sama's lips compressed into a frustrated line and his amethyst eyes  
narrowed. "Why are you protecting him, Devecia?"

Love and hate are two emotions perilously close to one another, and Devecia's  
bruised body was a living testament to the strong emotions twined around  
Cherior's heart.

Naturally, it had all begun with an argument.

   


* * *

"What the hell are you wearing those for?" Cherior asked with  
disgust, indicated Devecia's speedos with a disdainful wave of his hand.

Dev rolled his eyes. "The less clothing you wear, the less drag you  
have, and the faster you can swim." He placed a hand on one hip, giving  
Cherior a challenging look.

"Puh-lease," Cherior scoffed, wrinkling his nose with those cute  
little freckles. "I could wear an evening gown and still beat you in a  
race. It's about your muscles, not your clothes. You could be naked and it  
wouldn't make any fucking difference with those girly arms of yours."

"Is that so? You're on. One back and forth to see who's right."

Cherior's eyes gleamed with competitive spirit. "Prepare for defeat,  
Priss."

They stood at the edge of the pool. "On three," Cherior said,  
crouching at the edge of the pool as Dev did the same. Dev allowed himself to  
glance briefly at the muscles Cherior boasted of. "1…2…3," Cherior  
counted out, and they both dove into the pool.

In the beginning, Cherior had the lead._ He's stronger than I am,_  
Devecia thought. _But bulkier, too. I'm slim, I'm fast - I can beat him._

He concentrated and tried to swim his best - he touched the end of he pool and  
turned around to head back to the starting point…

His fingers brushed the side of the pool seconds before Cherior's did. The  
redhead's eyes contained a little grudging respect, even as he said, "A  
fluke. But you won for today."

Devecia raised an eyebrow. "How generous of you," he murmured. He  
had started towards the locker room, still dripping with water from the pool,  
when he felt a tug on his swimwear. His hands instantly clapped to the sides and  
encountered another pair of hands. Dev cleared his throat. "If you were  
that eager, you could have just asked, you know." He stole a glance at  
Cherior behind him.

Were Cherior's ears…pink?

Yes, yes they were.

Cherior recovered quickly and scowled at him. "I was trying to pants  
you, Priss. Like anyone would actually want _your_ sorry ass."

Devecia backed up against him, and the hard line of evidence told him  
otherwise. "You do," Dev said mildly. He turned to face the redhead,  
and deliberately ground his hips against Cherior's. "So what's stopping  
you?"

Cherior's breath was uneven, and Dev wondered how long he had until the  
redhead beat the living hell out of him.

Hands tightened on Dev's hips in a bruising grip, and Dev closed his eyes and  
waited for the first blow to land. His eyes flew open in shock as he felt lips  
touch his neck and teeth graze the tender skin there. He truly hadn't expected  
Cherior to give in so quickly to his hormones. But Cherior pressed Dev up  
against the wall, thrusting his hips forward, his lips busy at the green-haired  
boy's throat and his finger plucking at Dev's nipples.

Devecia threw his head back and gasped at the sensations. Cherior was rough  
with him, as Dev had always imagined he would be. For someone who had proclaimed  
distaste for his own sex, Cherior was uninhibited and very much in control.  
Cherior grasped Devecia's bottom and ground himself against the panting boy.  
Devecia couldn't help himself - it felt soooo good, and he'd been waiting for so  
long. "I want you, Cherior," he moaned helplessly.

Cherior stopped and shoved Devecia away from him. Cherior was panting as  
well, but the passion morphed quicker than he could blink into fury. Dev had  
just opened his mouth to ask what was wrong when Cherior's fist slammed into his  
face.

"I hate you," the redhead said in a guttural tone, his voice  
ragged. "This is all _your_ fault, you pansy-ass whore. It's your  
fault I feel like this." Cherior's eyes grew bright with rage and  
afterward…

All Devecia could do was curl up into a fetal position, whimpering softly in  
pain, waiting for someone to find him.

   


* * *

Devecia really didn't think Raphael-sama would understand at all. The  
Professor couldn't understand that Dev truly felt something for Cherior. The  
red-headed boy was quite passionate, and often that passion was expressed as  
violence, as though the boy didn't know what else to do with it.

Dev could think of a few things. They might even relax the little bastard.

Raphael-sama sighed softly in defeat and pulled the covers up to Devecia's  
neck, tucking a lock of dark green hair behind the boy's ear. He froze, blinked  
and reached out to touch the skin at the place where the neck met the shoulder.  
Devecia blinked confused eyes at him - his injuries were mostly on his face and  
ribs, so what had captured Raphael-sama's attention so?

Raphael-sama traced a bit of skin with one finger, making a delicate circle.  
Abruptly he stood and strode forward to the door and paused.  
"Devecia."

"Yes, Professor?"

"Tell Cherior that hickeys are fine, but if I ever see any more bruises  
on you, I'll sic Azrael on him. Understood?"

Without waiting for an answer, Raphael-sama left the room.

   


* * *

The empty chair was a silent rebuke.

Cherior sat sideways in his chair, as usual. What was not usual was this  
pensive feeling. Actually, when he stopped to think about it, he could better  
name the emotion that made his stomach feel like lead and left a sour taste in  
his mouth.

Guilt.

One row in front of him, Sophia and Barchiel were not so quietly discussing  
the rumors surrounding Devecia's "accident". Sophia's normally cheery  
tone was blotted down to one of serious concern. "I heard that he was hurt  
really badly, like his whole face was covered with bruises and his ribs aren't  
in too good of a condition either. You don't get hurt like that from falling  
down stairs."

Barchiel nodded his agreement. "But I can't think of anyone who would  
want to beat the hell out of him like that. Devecia's a good guy, you  
know?"

Sophia frowned and clenched her fists. "Whoever did it should be ashamed  
of themselves. They ought to get beaten up and then see how they like it."

Barchiel turned around in his seat to look at Cherior. "Don't you think  
so, Cherior?"

Cherior shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn't like feeling guilty -  
not at all. Usually when he lost his temper and pummeled someone or something,  
he felt justified. Now he just felt like bastard. After all, what had Devecia  
really done to deserve his anger?

"Definitely," he said faintly, after pausing a bit too long.  
Barchiel's eyes narrowed and he held Cherior's gaze for a moment before facing  
Sophia again.

"They say Devecia won't tell Raphael-sama who did it, which I think is  
kind of weird, don't you, Barchiel? I mean, if someone beat me up, I'd sure tell  
the Professor so this guy couldn't hurt me again. Whoever beat Devecia up must  
be pretty important to him to cover up like that. After all, the only thing  
Raphael-sama needs to expel Devecia's assailant is the name." Sophia wasn't  
looking at him, but Cherior heard every word as if she were speaking directly  
toward him. And she must have intended him to take it that way - Sophia wasn't  
stupid.

Barchiel gave her a grim smile and looked at Cherior out of the corner of his  
eye. "Whoever it is, he doesn't deserve Dev's loyalty, not after that.  
There's no excuse."

Mercifully the bell rang and spared Cherior from further conversation. But it  
wasn't the last he heard of it, as everyone was buzzing with the news. Cherior  
spent the rest of the day thinking about Devecia. In the end, he could only  
conclude that the boy had done nothing to warrant such a loss of control. After  
school, Cherior didn't go back to the dormitory - instead, he took the long walk  
to Azrael and Suriel's homey little cottage on the outskirts of the City. In the  
early evening, warm lamplight lit the windows and cast golden shadows on the  
immaculate garden and the worn stone walls. After hesitating a moment or two on  
the doorstep, Cherior screwed up his courage and rapped on the door.

Suriel-sama answered the door. Cherior didn't have a very good track record  
with his mentor's lover, having mouthed off any number of times, which he still  
didn't quite regret. But tonight, offending Suriel-sama would serve no purpose,  
especially as he was here to ask a favor of Azrael. He had at least a  
rudimentary understanding of good manners, even if he didn't exercise them very  
often. "Excuse me for coming so late and unannounced, Suriel-sama," he  
said quietly, his tone respectful and his head bowed. "If Azrael-sama is  
here, may I please speak to him?"

Suriel-sama looked quite shocked, but motioned him inside. "Darling,  
Cherior is here to see you!"

Azrael was working on his laptop. "What the fuck are you doing  
here?" he asked somewhat absently, looking over a document.

Cherior shifted from one foot to another, trying to decide the best course of  
action. "I…I need some advice, Azrael-sama."

The honorific made Azrael's head snap up. "Well, what did you do?"

Cherior tried very hard to keep the wince off his face. "It's not me.  
It's…a friend of mine. You see, he..uh, well, he has this classmate, right,  
and they don't exactly get along but they're always around each other."

Suriel-sama nodded encouragingly and Azrael looked bemused.

Clearing his throat, Cherior continued, "Anyway, my friend and his  
classmate…well, one night, they…well, that's to say, they…um…"

"Fucked like bunnies?" Azrael supplied helpfully.

Cherior shook his head vehemently and hoped his ears weren't pink.  
"No…just…um, touching. Anyway, my friend realized what he was doing and  
he kinda….well, lost it. And he hurt his classmate pretty badly." He  
tried very hard not to hang his head. Even telling this in the third person made  
him horribly ashamed of himself.

"Why do you think he hurt him?" Suriel-sama asked gently,  
cornflower blue eyes soft with concern.

Cherior concentrated on his shoe. "I don't know."

Azrael shut his laptop with a click. "Sound like your friend had a thing  
for his classmate and just couldn't deal with it the way he should have."

"What should…he…have done?"

"Well, he shouldn't have taken his confusion and fear out on his  
classmate. He should have talked it out, one on one. Then none of this would  
have happened," Suriel said firmly, moving to sit on the sofa beside  
Azrael.

Cherior wrung his hands. "But it did happen. And my friend…he feels  
really bad. Really guilty, 'cause he knows he shouldn't have done it, and his  
classmate didn't deserve it. And now his classmate is covering for him, and my  
friend knows he doesn't deserve it. So what should he do now?"

Azrael looked at him, and Cherior shivered as the dark eyes bore into him.  
"You ought to think about what you really want. And then you need to  
apologize, sincerely and at length."

"I didn't say it was me!" Cherior protested, his cheeks turning a  
color approximating his hair. He watched Azrael and Suriel exchange knowing  
looks.

"You didn't have to, twit. Remind me to give you some lessons in lying,  
later. Now, you know what you have to do. Get going," Azrael said gruffly,  
turning back to his laptop.

Suriel saw him to the door. "Cherior," he called as the redhead had  
started down the path. "Maybe you ought to go see Ardouisur and pick up  
some flowers, ne?" Cherior nodded, then bowed low and bade him a good  
night. He wagered that no one had made Suriel's chin drop like that in quite  
some time.

   


* * *

The hospital was Raphael-sama's in name only. While the Professor was quite  
skilled in herbs and drugs, he had little interest in surgery and therapy and  
other such things. Fortunately, many angels had the ability to heal and had  
studied medicine during their life on earth. Cherior stopped by the front desk  
and got directions to Devecia's room.

He opened the door slowly, taking care to be quiet as the room was dark and  
he was almost certain Devecia would be asleep. Sure enough, the green-haired boy  
was sleeping, the moonlight highlighting the garish bruises and cuts on his  
face.

_I did this._

Cherior carefully set the vase of tulips on the small table beside the bed  
and sat down in a chair, scooting it closer to the bed so that he could keep an  
eye on Devecia. He sat back in his chair and resolved to wait until the boy woke  
up.

Devecia woke in the middle of the night and felt something warm on top of his  
hand. He blinked and rubbed an eye with his free hand and looked down to see a  
very familiar head of red hair. Now what on earth was he doing here?

One hand atop Devecia's, Cherior was sitting in a chair and sleeping with his  
head on the bed. Fast asleep, Devecia thought that you could almost forget what  
Cherior was actually like, and be deceived into thinking him an innocent. Dev  
noticed the flowers on the bedside table and reached for them.

Cherior stirred with Dev's movement, and his eyes fluttered open.  
"Hmm..y'wake?" he said, his voice slurred with sleep.

Devecia nodded slowly. Cherior sighed. "I gotta tell you, I'm…really  
sorry. I didn't mean for it to happen, and…that's no excuse, but I feel pretty  
shitty about the whole thing and I want to make it up to you, though you don't  
have to let me and I totally wouldn't blame you because I.."

"Cherior?" Devecia interrupted.

The redhead looked up. "Huh?"

Dev reached out a hand and softly stroked Cherior's hair, as he had been  
wanting to do for quite some time. "I accept your apology. And you can make  
it up to me."

"How?" Cherior asked, sounding eager even to himself.

Devecia shifted over slightly in the bed and held out his arms. "Hold  
me?'

Cherior gulped, then slowly crawled into bed beside the green-haired boy.  
Hesitantly, he tucked Devecia into his arms and he felt the boy sigh with  
contentment. Not long later, he realized Dev was asleep and closed his eyes,  
just to nap for a while.

   


* * *

Devecia awoke to hushed voices, but feigned sleep.

"So that's what this was all about - I was right, after all. The kid had  
better behave himself."

"I don't think you need to worry now, Raphael-sama."

"…D'you think they already made it together?"

"Raphael-sama! They're surely not ready to do so!"

"Cherior missed Uriel's seminar on angel sexuality, you know. A shame,  
since he missed out on all that practical knowledge."

A pause. "I hope somebody tells him about lube. Poor Dev is probably  
still in pain as it is."

A chuckle. "You volunteering, Mikael?"

"Mmm…I think I need a refresher course first."

Devecia cleared his throat before opening his eyes. "Raphael-sama?"

he called quietly. Somebody must have given him more drugs because he wasn't  
hurting anymore.

Raphael-sama and Mikael-sama walked over to the bed. "How are you  
feeling today?" Raphael-sama asked softly.

Dev wiggled a little in bed. "Pretty good, actually," he said,  
faintly surprised.

Raphael-sama grinned. "Excellent. I always knew Cherior had a hidden  
talent but I wasn't sure what is was until now." Devecia blinked  
uncomprehendingly, and Mikael-sama hastened to explain, "He healed all your  
injuries."

The green-haired boy looked at the sleeping Cherior with amazement, then  
touched his own cheek. No welts, no bruises, no cuts that he could feel. He slid  
his fingers through Cherior's dark red curls, trying to figure out how this had  
happened.

Raphael-sama fished a key out of his pocket. "You two have some talking  
to do. But after you're done, I think you might be able to use this." He  
pressed the key into Devecia's palm, who looked at it in bewilderment.

"What's it to?" the green-haired boy asked, puzzled.

Mikael-sama coughed delicately. "It's a nice little apartment in  
Ardouisur's Gardens that has been unoccupied since I was a student. But if you  
want it, you're welcome to it. After all, the Dormitory is hardly the sort of  
place for a serious couple, and Ardouisur won't keep two boarders in her house  
at the same time."

Devecia blushed. "Thank you," he managed to murmur.

Raphael-sama beamed at him. "You're most welcome. Now, Mikael and I have  
a…refresher course to attend. Dev, you're clear to go as soon as you  
want." He walked out the door, Mikael-sama in tow.

The shutting of the door woke Cherior, who rubbed his eyes and blinked  
several times. He looked momentarily uncomfortable as he realized just how his  
limbs were entwined with Devecia, but instead of bolting as Devecia saw him  
quickly consider, Cherior embraced him. "What happened?" Cherior  
asked, his finger tracing Dev's healed cheekbone.

"You happened, apparently. Better be careful with that or you'll be  
spending more time here," Devecia said, smiling gently.

Cherior didn't look shocked at all. Instead he rolled onto his side and  
supported himself by one elbow. "So…"

Devecia licked his lips anxiously. "Don't you think we should  
talk?"

Cherior leaned in, his eyes hungry as he watched that pink tongue flicker out  
over Dev's full lips. "Yeah," he breathed. "Talk…" Their  
lips met hesitantly, awkwardly, and then they smiled at each other, and tried  
again. And again. And again. And many more times.

In the end, Cherior proved that while Uriel's seminar might have been very  
useful, sometimes it was better to make it up as you go.


	9. No Promises

The Metatron sniffled and hiccupped a little. The papers on his desk bore  
evidence of tearstains, and his delicate handkerchief was twisted and quite  
soggy. Needless to say, he'd been crying all morning.

Bright and early, he'd shown up at Uriel's residence. That had probably been  
his first mistake - the whole morning thing. Second, one of Uriel's paramours  
had sidled past him after Uriel answered the door. That hadn't boded too well,  
either.

And then...

And then...

The Metatron screwed his eyes shut, trying to prevent more tears from  
escaping. No such luck, though. Warm, fat tears slid down his cheeks, which he  
was certain must be quite red and puffy by now.

He reached with one shaking hand for his gilt hand mirror. Puffy cheeks,  
check. Reddened, watery eyes, check. Heart ripped out by Uriel, check.

The Metatron let loose a wail and cradled his head in his arms, and proceeded  
to sob quite noisily.

"Koe-kun?"

"Go _away_," the Metatron sniffed, wiping his eyes on his  
sleeve. "I don't want to see anyone right now." He turned in his  
swivel chair so his back was to the door.

He was quite surprised when Raphael bodily hauled him over to the fluffy  
couch and settled the Voice of Most Holy in his lap. The Metatron twisted and  
turned, still weeping, and tried to evade Raphael's embrace. It was no use,  
though - the Metatron had always been too slender to attain muscles like  
Raphael's. Eventually he quieted, his body cradled close to Raphael's and his  
face pressed into the comforting warmth of the Professor's shoulder.

"Now...what happened?" Raphael began gently.

The Metatron sat up, and even thinking about it made his eyes well up with  
tears again. All this crying was inducing a headache. "Nothing I shouldn't  
have expected," he said quietly, dully. He managed a wan little smile.  
"But I'm all better now, so I'll just be going - "

He hadn't even flexed a few muscles to stand when Raphael's arms locked  
tighter about him. "Nice try, Koe-kun. But I'm not letting you go until you  
tell me what happened."

The Metatron hiccupped a bit as he stared into those serious amethyst eyes.  
"Promise?"

Raphael sighed and cuddled him. "Of course I promise."

The Metatron allowed himself to relax and tucked his head under Raphael's  
chin. "I went to visit him this morning." Raphael didn't need to be  
told who "him" was. "And I just decided that I was going to tell  
him how I felt, because I just...I just couldn't keep it inside anymore. So I  
told him I loved him...and...and do you know what he said, Raphael?" He  
didn't wait for an answer before continuing, "He just said, 'Sorry, Koe. I  
can't say the same. Thanks anyway, though.'"

Raphael groaned.

"So you see...there's really no help for it. He doesn't love me, he  
won't ever love me, and I can't stop loving him and..." He sniffled, ready  
to sob again.

"Um, Koe?" Raphael interrupted, his voice strained.

The Metatron looked up, curious. "Yes?"

"Um, that thing with your nails. Could you not do that?"

The Metatron looked at him in surprise, then glanced down to Raphael's chest,  
which he belatedly realized that he'd been stroking with his shapely,  
well-manicured nails. He gently lifted away a corner of Raphael's jacket to see  
that the Professor's nipples were hardened. "Sorry," the Metatron  
apologized, quite embarrassed. He'd really never considered Raphael out of a  
platonic light.

Raphael waved away his apology. "No harm done."

The Metatron peered at him. "Is that a thing for you? Maybe I should  
invite Mikael over and give him a manicure."

Raphael stared at him for a minute, and then they both smiled, and before  
long they were giggling quietly.

Finally, they sombered. "Koe-kun, you know as well as I do that trying  
to stop Uriel from sleeping around is like trying to stop the bullet train with  
your pinky finger. I'm not trying to crush you - I just want you to see things  
realistically," Raphael said softly, his amethyst eyes holding the  
Metatron's.

The Metatron sighed. "I know. But even if I could just be with him every  
weekend I'd be more than happy."

Raphael didn't say anything to that. In fact, he appeared to be thinking  
quite seriously. Suddenly, he pushed the Metatron off his lap.

"Where are you going?" the Metatron called, alarmed.

Raphael stopped it the doorway and winked. "Uriel never could resist a  
good bet. I'll see what I can do about your weekends, Koe-kun." He left and  
the Metatron stared after him for a few moments, mouth open in shock.

Well. The Metatron walked over to his desk, taking up his mirror again. What  
he really needed was a good facial. Maybe a mud bath. And now that he thought  
about it, his hair hadn't had a hot oil treatment in almost a month. He smiled,  
perhaps the second one in good faith that morning. He cheerfully picked up his  
cell phone and speed-dialed the Administrator.

"Gabriel," the angel answered impatiently.

"Gabby, I'm going out this afternoon, and I'm taking Mikael with  
me."

"Official business?" Gabriel asked sharply.

"Why, of _course_ it is, Gabby dear. Every day is a new day to  
devote to the Most Holy's service, wouldn't you agree?" He gave an inane  
little giggle that he knew drove Gabriel absolutely up the wall.

In fact, he could swear the Administrator was grinding his teeth. "Fine.  
Don't forget the Faculty Breakfast tomorrow morning."

"Of course, sweetheart," he cooed.

"SWEETHE-"

The Metatron pushed the "off" button.

 

   


* * *

Mikael was understandably surprised when The Metatron showed up at his  
classroom and whisked him away from grading papers. He was even more surprised  
when they ended up on the doorstep of what was popularly referred to as  
"The Palace." Not that it was really of a palatial size or anything,  
but the immaculate gardens and the interior suggested that the owner was at  
least a member of royalty.

Which, in a way, he supposed the Metatron was. In any case, it was clear that  
the Voice of Most Holy had a deep appreciation for aesthetics, though Mikael was  
given no time to really look as the Metatron determinedly led him up a  
staircase. "I'll give you the grand tour later," the Metatron assured  
him cheerfully. He pulled Mikael into a room and neatly closed the door.

A...spa?

"It's just you and me this evening. Strip," the Metatron commanded  
breezily.

Mikael couldn't help it. He blushed furiously. "What?!" he demanded  
in a strangled voice.

The Metatron ticked off a list on his fingers. "You need a good massage,  
a soak in a rosewater bath, a facial, and then I'll do your nails."

Mikael sputtered - it was all he could do, under the circumstances.  
"B-but...why?"

The Metatron blinked, as if he thought the answer obvious. "Because I  
think you need a massage. A real one, not just a flimsy excuse for foreplay.  
Now, if you please, remove your clothing so I can get to work."

Mikael sighed and the Metatron made an encouraging noise. Deciding, finally,  
that it might be nice, he unbuttoned his Mandarin jacket and put it on a nearby  
chair, the matching trousers and undergarments following shortly.

He thought he was just going to die as the Metatron scrutinized his body.  
"You know, Mikael, you really oughtn't skip meals. You're a bit on the thin  
side and it drives Raphael crazy when you don't take care of yourself." The  
Metatron patted a padded table. "Hop up, lie on your stomach."

About twenty minutes later, Mikael was so thoroughly relaxed that he might  
have agreed to just about anything to keep the Metatron's firm fingers kneading  
oil into his muscles. He smiled dreamily. Why, it almost felt as good as...

"The effect you've had on Raphael is really quite amazing, I must  
say," the Metatron murmured, concentrating on Mikael's calves. "You're  
always on his mind. It's quite touching, really."

Mikael made some affirmative sound, hearing but not interested in responding.

"Bath time!" the Metatron announced, patting him on the rear.  
Mikael allowed himself to be led over to an enormous tub filled with warm,  
scented water and liberally strewn with rose petals. He sunk in to the tub up to  
his chin and sighed appreciatively.

"Turn your face towards me, Mikael." His face was then smeared with  
something that smelled like...clay?! He opened his eyes to blink at the  
Metatron, who was busy applying the face mask to himself. Mikael proceeded to  
squeak as the Metatron quite unashamedly divested himself of his clothing and  
climbed into the tub as well.

The Metatron sighed contentedly. "Much better than grading papers,  
wouldn't you say?" he murmured, practically purring. "When you can't  
depend on others to take care of you, it's nice to know you can take care of  
yourself."

Mikael idly played with a petal. _Are you that alone?_ he wanted to ask.  
_Confined like a bird in your Tower, always looking out the window and wishing  
you were with your love?_

"Now...what are you going to do when Raphael sees you tonight?"

Mikael sharply reminded himself just whom he was talking to. And then he sunk  
deeper in the water in an attempt to hide.

"I know just the thing! Have you ever done this?" The Metatron  
proceeded to outline a seduction scheme in frank and naughty detail. Mikael  
squirmed a bit with embarrassment at first, but then gave himself over to  
curious fascination.

"It really works like that?" Mikael asked. "Raphael-sama is a  
little impatient, usually."

The Metatron waved one hand negligently. "Oh, Raphael is as susceptible  
to a well-planned seduction as the next person, I'd imagine. Don't forget about  
that chest thing, okay? That reminds me! Wipe off the mask and I'll do your  
nails next."

There was really no escaping. Mikael fought down a groan of despair.

 

   


* * *

"Um, Mikael?"

"Yes?"

"That thing with your nails..."

"Hmmm?"

Raphael moaned and proceeded to thoroughly make love to his darling,  
impossibly desirable Mikael.

 

   


* * *

The Metatron arrived back home shortly after dropping Mikael off back at the  
apartment. His garden was charmingly lit with little sparkling lights, but the  
house itself was completely dark.

_No one to come home to._ "I'm so lonely," he whispered, half  
to himself, half to Most Holy. The Deity chose not to respond, and with a heavy  
sigh the Metatron opened the front door to his empty house.

He wandered into his kitchen and half-heartedly ate some fruit. He didn't  
really feel like eating a meal and ended up pouring himself a glass of wine  
instead.

Who was he kidding, really?

Nothing had changed since this morning. Raphael couldn't possibly do in a day  
what he himself had failed to accomplish in millennia.

He trudged up to his bedroom, correspondence in one hand, wine glass in the  
other. Setting his glass down at his impossibly messy vanity, he shuffled  
through the letters. "Party invitation, administration request, nasty note  
from Gabriel, junk..." he murmured to himself. He absently reached for his  
glass and yelped when he pricked his finger.

Sucking on his small wound, he hunted around for the perpetrator. Oh, yes.  
That.

A rather pretty paring knife - a long ago gift from Suriel, after the  
golden-haired angel had attempted to teach him how to cook. It had turned out  
that he was perhaps too flighty, since he burned almost everything by the simple  
expedient of forgetting about it until it started to smoke. Now what was it  
doing up here? He must have been eating apples one day or some such.

He peered at it. It looked very dull. Perhaps if he asked Azrael nicely the  
black-winged angel would sharpen it right up for him. He brought the blade to  
his palm to test it.

"Don't you dare even think it, Koe."

The Metatron whipped around to see the object of his every desire reclining  
on the four-poster bed. And faster than he could even ask what Uriel was doing  
here, the angel launched himself off the bed and strode angrily over to the  
Metatron.

Pulling the knife out of slack hands and capturing the Metatron's wrists,  
Uriel leaned in. His azure eyes were dark and the Metatron had one thought - _oh  
shit, he's really pissed_ \- before Uriel claimed his lips.

It wasn't a nice kiss. It wasn't a tender kiss. Uriel was totally in control  
and broke away a few moments later, the Metatron's wrists still captive.

"What," he hissed, "did you think you were doing?"

"I-" the Metatron stuttered in fright.

"Is it because of this morning?" Uriel demanded.

The Metatron denied it with a rapid shake of his head. "Of course not!  
Uriel, I wasn't - "

"The hell you weren't," the Angel of Most Holy's Wrath said evenly.

"Dammit, Koe, just because I don't love you doesn't mean I don't  
care."

The Metatron's eyes widened, and Uriel kissed him again. This time it was  
warm and soft, gentle and kind, and god, he'd lied to himself before, pretending  
these kisses meant more than they did...

But god, it _felt_ real. And suddenly, with a strangled moan of despair,  
the Metatron decided he just didn't care what the kisses meant, so long as Uriel  
was with him right now.

 

   


* * *

Uriel didn't leave in the morning as he usually did. Koe's slender body  
was softly twined about his as the dawn light bathed them in a golden haze. He  
gently stroked the soft, stormy grey of Koe's hair, and narrowly resisted the  
urge to check those beautiful, girlish hands and wrists. _How can you love me  
that much?_

It wasn't that Uriel hadn't witnessed love before. Plenty of angels,  
including some of his most frequent companions were in love. Images of Azrael  
and Suriel, Raphael and Mikael flashed in his mind's eye. Uriel just didn't  
look for love for himself. He had lovers and friends by the score – some  
lovers who were friends and some friends who were lovers, but in the end he  
never wanted for company.

In truth, Uriel had come to the Palace last night because Koe had told him  
they were to do a Summoning. But with all the fuss, Koe had apparently forgotten  
because he wasn't waiting in his office at the appointed time. So Uriel had  
flown over to the Palace, and being at least marginally familiar with the  
bedroom, and decided to wait there.

He hadn't expected to see Koe attempt to slit his wrists. He hadn't  
expected becoming furious and making love to the desperately clinging Voice of  
Most Holy. Koe, whose dark pearl eyes glimmered with tears even as Uriel had  
kissed him, who had wept at the height of his passion.

_Just because I don't love you doesn't mean I don't care_. That  
morning, Uriel resolved to help his friend through this. If it meant sticking  
closer to Koe than was customary – well, what are friends for?

"Wake up, Koe darling."

The Metatron stirred and looked up into the azure depths of Uriel's eyes.  
He's still here? he thought wildly. Why?

"Our Summoning was a little delayed, but we should probably get to it this  
morning, don't you think?"

The Metatron paused briefly and consulted. "Yes, He'd appreciate it if we  
did it soon."

Uriel gave him an odd look and brushed the Metatron's face with one  
fingertip. He looked as if he wanted to say something, and then just didn't.  
Dressing quickly, they flew to the Tower and soared high above the apex.

The Metatron clasped Uriel from behind and the dark-haired angel stilled his  
wings and began to chant the words of the Summoning. The Metatron held Uriel  
tighter as the wind picked up and began to scream around them. The clouds were  
stained inky black to match Uriel's changed eyes, and the Voice of Most Holy  
could feel the energy gathering in the air, crackling about them. Suddenly Uriel  
twisted in his grip, and he was terrified he'd drop the angel.

But he didn't, and he found himself still clasping Uriel about the waist,  
looking not at feathers but at the midnight black eyes of the Angel of Wrath.  
Uriel never ceased his chanting, and the Metatron felt, even more so than usual,  
that the Summoning was like violent sex.

Uriel's chanting reached its climax, and the Metatron felt the consent of  
Most Holy rip through him as it always did, heard himself wail in agony as he  
always did, felt Uriel shield his head with one protective arm as he had _never_  
done, and then heard/saw/felt Uriel throw the lightening bolt to Earth.

The summoning over, Uriel spread his wings and crushed the Metatron's mouth  
to his own. "Whoever is in your office had better get the hell out," Uriel  
husked, his voice dark with desire.

The Metatron obliged, broadcasting a message down to his office to go away,  
come back later. Though it was something of a strain to do so while Uriel's  
mouth ate frantically at his own, tongues dancing and teeth nipping.

They tumbled in through a Tower window and Uriel wasted no time in divesting  
them both of their trousers. The sheer ferocity of Uriel's need startled the  
Metatron, who was used to Uriel ignoring him for days after a Summoning. Uriel  
lift trails of nipping kisses and love bites over his neck and chest and  
impatiently ground their hips together. Their mutual moans and hoarse cries  
filled the air as Uriel took him with an exhilarating fierceness.

Afterwards they panted together, with Uriel still sheathed inside him. They  
were sweaty and sort of happily sticky, and the Metatron made a mental note to  
have the carpet cleaned. However, he stopped thinking entirely when Uriel asked  
one question:

"So, what are we having for dinner tonight?"

 

   


* * *

The door to the teacher's lounge flew open, which in itself was not  
unusual. Raphael, Mikael, Suriel and Azrael were more than used to the comings  
and goings of the rest of the teaching staff. So they hadn't even bothered to  
look up from their respective beverages (tea, tea, tea, brandied coffee) when  
the door slammed shut again and the Metatron skidded to halt in front of Suriel.

He considerately removed the teacup from Suriel's fingers and carefully  
placed it on the table behind him before kneeling and clasping Suriel's legs.  
The Metatron gave the golden-hared beauty his most winsome smile and said  
sweetly, "Suriel, dear heart, will you do me a little tiny favor?"

Raphael and Mikael tried to hide smiles, Azrael rolled his eyes and cursed  
under his breath, and Suriel looked a lot like a corner animal. "What might  
that be?" Suriel asked finally, trying desperately not to look into the  
Metatron's eyes, which he would almost swear were glittering.

"I need you to help me cook dinner tonight."

Raphael and Mikael lost it and started to laugh helplessly, holding on to  
each other for support. The Metatron blew a stray hair out his face impatiently.  
_Dammit, does_ everyone _know how terrible a cook I am?_

Azrael nudged him with one boot. "What the fuck for? You don't usually  
eat dinner and when you do, it's take-out."

The Metatron was starting to feel a little bit desperate. "Suriel, you just  
have to help me! He's coming over tonight and expecting dinner, and I just  
know I'd make a horrible mess of it, and I'd just die if he didn't like it  
and no one else is as good as you are and – "

Suriel cut off his hysterical babbling by clamping a hand over his mouth.  
"Heavens," he murmured. "Who's 'he'? Someone we know?" he teased  
gently. "Perhaps the same someone you were with earlier when you shrieked at  
Azrael and I to get out of your office?"

The Metatron blushed delicately and removed Suriel's hand from his mouth.  
"So will you help me?"

Azrael looked across at Raphael, who had a very self-satisfied,  
cat-with-the-cream smile. /_What the fuck did you do?/_

/Absolutely nothing. I had plans, but it's so nice when these things work  
out on their own, don't you think?/

Suriel and the Metatron were already in the middle of a conversation that  
was more than a little hard to follow, as it was half aloud and half mental.  
They seemed to reach some sort of conclusion and headed out the door, not  
sparing a glance for the others.

Azrael sipped from his coffee and looked over the rim at the couple on the  
couch across from him. "Provided you two can keep your hands to yourselves,  
would you mind a dinner guest this evening? I get this feeling that Suri won't  
be home for awhile and I don't feel like leftovers."

Raphael smiled sunnily. "We'd be happy to have you over for dinner, Az.  
Why, Mikael cooks the nicest yakisoba in town."

Mikael elbowed the Professor in the ribs without changing expression.  
"Actually, Raphael-sama makes some truly splendid fettuccini alfredo."

Raphael grimaced. "Are you sure it's my turn to make dinner?"

Azrael watched the ensuing squabble with thinly veiled amusement. It was  
funny how couples, no matter angelic or human, argued about the very same  
things.

 

   


* * *

The Metatron decided that Uriel was like a befriended stray cat. He went off  
and did his own thing during the day, but could be expected every night for  
dinner. Amongst other things.

Uriel and the Metatron fell into a nice little routine fairly quickly. When  
they woke up in the morning, they had a leisurely breakfast in the sunroom  
together. Then the Metatron went off to his Tower and Uriel went off to do  
whatever it was that Uriel did during the day, which included teaching seminars,  
mentoring Sophia, pissing off stuffy angels, and merrily sleeping with whomever  
caught his fancy at the moment.

And the Metatron was really okay with that. It had initially irked him, but  
he remembered Raphael's analogy concerning Uriel and the bullet train and  
decided that it really didn't matter in the big scheme of things.

Because Uriel always came back to him every evening at dinnertime, and  
sometimes they would go have fun with Raphael, Azrael, and the others. Sometimes  
they just stayed home and enjoyed each other's company. The Metatron was just  
delirious with joy, which had the completely unexpected effect of mildly toning  
down his ditzyness rather than exacerbating it. Current theory was that a  
contented flake was a little more stable than an angsty flake. But whatever.

Now, the thing with patterns is that they're inordinately comfortable. You  
get used to doing something a certain way, you arrange things just to your  
satisfaction, and everything more or less petrifies into one pleasing shape.  
There's never any fear of the unknown, because you do the same thing over and  
over again. Being spontaneous is all very well and good, but for some, even  
spontaneity becomes a pattern. It's the nature of mortals to want to take  
things, categorize them, put them into neat little boxes and file them away.

Having your pattern broken is not a happy event, to say the least. Especially  
when someone you very deeply love is responsible. Note that it is not impossible  
to both adore a person and yet want to kill him in a slow, painful manner.

The Metatron drummed his fingers on the china plate, his expression growing  
darker by the second. Uriel was late. Uriel was _two hours late_. Their  
beautiful dinner was now thoroughly cold - okay, so it was from the nice little  
Italian restaurant in the City, but he'd still gone to all the trouble of  
arranging it in an attractive fashion. And Uriel was late! Late, late, late,  
late. The Metatron contemplated strangling him.

"Honey, I'm home!"

Uriel just barely ducked the china plate that had been aimed at the general  
vicinity of his head. "You IDIOT!" the Metatron screeched, throwing a  
coffee cup saucer and missing Uriel by about four feet.

Uriel put an end to crockery abuse by pinning the Metatron's arms to his  
sides. "Would you like to explain to me in rational terms what your problem  
is?"

"My problem?" the Metatron began in a low, dangerous voice.  
"My _problem_ is that I've been waiting for you for two hours now, and  
you're always on time, but this time you weren't, and I thought you had left me  
because Most Holy only knows that you leave everybody and I was terrified that  
it was my turn and you never pay any attention to how other people feel and I  
even made dinner for you, only I didn't really make it but it's the thought that  
counts and YOU ARE LATE!" The last few words were something of a furious  
wail.

Uriel rolled his eyes. "Why should I have to be on time?"

The Metatron gave a futile attempt to wiggle out of Uriel's arms.  
"Because I was expecting you, you twit! You've been here for dinner every  
night for two months and I didn't think anything was going to change!"

"Twit?!" Uriel repeated in a shocked voice. "Oh, stop it. I  
was with someone and I just sort of forgot about the time. It's not like I have  
to worry anymore about..." he trailed off as he saw the Metatron's eyes  
widen with hurt.

Uriel twisted to the side just in time to avoid the knee aimed toward his  
groin. Then the Metatron started to cry and Uriel suddenly felt like shit.

"Was that why you stayed all this time? Because you thought I would hurt  
myself?" his Koe asked him in a small, frightened voice.

Uriel sighed and held him tight. "That and you're a good partner for  
cards. Amongst other things. Come on, Koe, don't do this to me. What does it  
matter so long as I'm here?"

The Metatron really didn't have a good verbal response to that one. So he  
kissed Uriel instead.

The thing with kisses is that they can often say so much more and so much  
better than we can with words. Hence the Metatron's lips were perfectly capable  
of letting Uriel know that he was hurt and he was afraid of hurting more because  
he loved too deeply. And Uriel could convey a hint of apology, a little bit of  
uneasiness, and a genuine passion for the grey-eyed angel in his arms.

On mutual, unspoken agreement, they made their way to the bedroom and Uriel  
laid the Metatron back on the bed, removing clothing with a practiced, gentle  
touch.

The best thing about kisses is that they can start out one way, with anger,  
frustration, sadness, fear, and any number of things. But when two people join  
their kisses, they have this wonderful way of morphing into something so much  
better, infinitely more precious.

Uriel never made any promises. He never returned any of the Metatron's  
gasping declarations of love, never swore "forever." Hell, he usually  
didn't swear "tomorrow." Perhaps the Metatron was deluding himself  
once again, and in fact, it was even likely. But when they had fun with their  
friends, when they dined together, when the Metatron listened to Uriel sing,  
when they lay drowsing in the aftermath of lovemaking, he could almost see it.

Sometimes those azure eyes, when Uriel thought no one was watching, had a  
sort of grudging tenderness in their expression.

So if Uriel never made promises and never whispered the words the Metatron  
longed to hear, it would be okay. Guarded gazes and kisses would be enough, had  
to be enough. After all, Uriel had never given so much of himself to anyone, and  
even this was more than he had ever dared hope for.

"I love you," the Metatron whispered urgently. "I love  
you!" He held Uriel tight as the blue-eyed angel shuddered in ecstasy above  
him. Uriel's eyes were half-lidded as he pressed a brief kiss to the Metatron's  
forehead.

"I know," he whispered.


	10. Now We're Cooking

Living in Ardouisur's meant that people began to spread rumors about Cherior  
and Devecia. This pissed Cherior off. The fact that the rumors were true didn't  
make him feel any better.

Once, Zachariel made the mistake of trying to tease him.

"I hear you're living with Devecia," he said.

"Yeah," Cherior muttered, packing his bag. "That's  
right."

"Well," Zachariel said. "I guess it's always the ones you  
don't suspect."

Cherior kept packing his bag.

"So, are you fucking Devecia?" Zachariel asked.

"No."

Zachariel looked offended. "Why not? I mean, if /I/ was living in the  
same place as that boy, I'd throw him face-first on the bed in no time--"  
He began to gesture a demonstration.

So Cherior hit him.

Hard.

   


* * *

  


Devecia was unimpressed when Cherior got back from detention. "Are you _still_  
getting into fights?"

The red-haired student shrugged and went to find an ice pack.  
"Yeah."

Devecia watched him, arms crossed, hair pulled back in a French twist. He'd  
already changed out of his school uniform and was wearing jeans and a white  
t-shirt -- simple, immaculate clothing that somehow looked sexy on him. Exotic.  
The twist kept most of his neck bare and pale, except for a few green stands  
which floated around his face, shaping it, making the curve of the jawbone  
prominent and eye-catching.

/If I was living in the same place as that boy, I'd throw him face-first on  
the bed in no time/

Carefully, Cherior applied the ice pack to his lip. "Figures that my  
healing abilities only work on OTHER people."

"I hear that's normal," Devecia said mildly, pulling out a chair  
for Cherior, another for himself. Fingers toyed with the loose strands of green.  
"What were you fighting about this time?"

/Face first on the bed in no time/

"Nothing," Cherior said. "What's for dinner?"

Devecia scowled. "YOU could cook for once, you know. It wouldn't kill  
you. It might even be appreciated."

"I don't know how to cook," Cherior said. Besides, the idea was  
ludicrous. He bought pizza or café food, but that's as far as it went. Ever.

"Oh, good," Devecia murmured, eyes half-lidded. "Then you  
wouldn't mind learning."

   


* * *

  


"Stir it. No keep stirring. ALL of it. You don't want it to burn to the  
bottom of the--"

"Fuck it, it IS burning!"

"Here, add some water."

A fizzling noise.

"Not that much."

"What?"

"You just drowned our stir-fry. I think we'd better make it wok  
instead."

"What the hell's wok?"

   


* * *

  


Dinner tasted awful. "See, this is why I think you should cook."

"Practice makes perfect," Devecia pointed out, sweetly. He took  
another mouthful and swallowed quickly.

Cherior watched him eat for a while, his own plate pushed away.

Full lips closed around the fork. An unhappy face, then throat worked as  
Devecia swallowed.

"You don't have to eat it, you know," Cherior pointed out. "We  
have some leftovers we can heat--"

"I want to," Devecia said. "You made it."

   


* * *

  


The swelling went down pretty quickly, which Cherior appreciated, though he  
didn't know if it was actually his own healing abilities or if it wasn't as bad  
as it had felt. So despite split lip, he had been able to trap Devecia against  
the couch, stealing (gentle) kiss after kiss.

Arms, tight around him, fingers crooked in clothing. Devecia had a soft mouth  
and was a devil with his tongue. The sound of denim on denim -- jean-clad legs  
against jean-clad legs. Hair slowly untwisting, spread on the couch. Bobby pins  
on the floor. Hands inside each other's shirt, just wandering. Touching.

Worshiping, smoothing, hoping.

"Cherior," Devecia whispered as Cherior licked along his pulse.  
"Do... you want to..."

"Yeah."

"...make love to me...?"

"Yeah." Hands moved more frantically now, trying to bare more  
flesh.

"I mean... the" Devecia hesitated and Cherior pulled back to look  
at him. "Oh, fuck, there's no term for it that doesn't sound stupid. Do you  
want to fuck me, Cherior?"

Cherior snorted, slipping a hand down Devecia's pants. "I always want to  
fuck you, Dev."

A sigh, a quick jolt of hips moving. "I mean... all the way."  
Silence, and Devecia laughed. "I sound like a virgin girl there, huh?"

The redhead pulled back more, watched Devecia spread out, one knee bent, arms  
still raised to hook around Cherior's waist. "Let me get this  
straight," Cherior said quietly. "You want me to take you up the  
ass."

Colour spread across Devecia's face.

/If I was living in the same place as that boy, I'd throw him face-first on  
the bed in no time/

"Yeah," Devecia murmured, hands wandering again. "Yeah, that's  
what I want."

And there was something final about that, something scary.

More frightening than warm mouths, than hands, then the powerful force of  
heat and friction.

Something--

"Not right now," Cherior said, hand curling around Devecia's penis.

"Yeah, okay," Devecia said, eyes closing. "I understand."

 

* * *

  


Devecia didn't have a morning class the next day, so he lay there in bed,  
curled on his side, while Cherior got up, dressed. In the other room, he made  
coffee and cereal. He called back a tired "I'm going now" to Devecia  
and left.

Five minutes later he realized he'd forgotten his school uniform tie, and so  
came back, crept up to his room in case Devecia was asleep.

He wasn't.

Green hair spread on the pillow, eyes closed.

One hand playing with a nipple.

The other lower. Between his legs. Circling fingers around his anus.

Cherior clutched at the door for a moment, silent, then turned and clattered  
back down the stairs, pausing in the kitchen to duck his head under the water,  
to wait for his erection to fade.

Because he could go to school without a tie.

   


* * *

  


"Here," Devecia said when he got home after that evening's class.  
The green-haired boy dropped some bottles and cans in Cherior's arms.

"Ingredients."

"What?" Cherior asked.

Devecia smiled blindingly. "For spaghetti. It's a little easier than  
stir fry."

Cherior shook his head quickly, tried to hand the ingredients back. "No,  
you saw yesterday, I'm no good as a cook, you should make it--"

"I'll instruct you. It's easy, you know. You just guess and taste every  
so often. It just sort of happens. Put everything together, and it just  
happens."

"Can't I just buy something?" Cherior pleaded.

"I'll get the oven started."

   


* * *

  


Spaghetti was somewhat easier than stir-fry, though the meat ended up more  
blacked than browned, the oven needed cleaning, and there was too much garlic.  
Cherior apologized.

"There's no such thing as too much garlic," Devecia lied, spinning  
his fork to get more. "It's good. I love it. I really hope you make it  
again."

"You don't need to go that far," Cherior said. "It sucks. I  
should toss it."

"I /like/ it," Devecia said. "I want it. You don't have to eat  
it if you don't want to, but at least let me do it."

Cherior watched him eat. "Thanks."

"I love you, you know."

"Yeah," Cherior muttered. "Me too."

Devecia beamed, licked his fork. "So does this mean you'll cook  
again?"

"No."

   


* * *

  


Bodies tangled, mostly unclothed, mouths eating roughly at each other.  
Devecia's mouth still tasted faintly of spaghetti. Of garlic. A leg pushed in  
between Cherior's thighs and rubbed, so he growled and bit Devecia.

"Oh!"

Apparently, Devecia liked that, so Cherior did it again.

"Mmmm... you... can... you can fuck me if you want."

"You have a pretty mouth," Cherior said, licking at it. "Fuck,  
I love watching your mouth."

Devecia gazed at him for a moment, then smiled. "Hmm. Okay." He  
slid down, began mouthing Cherior through the cloth. Raised his head, eyes hot.  
"Like when I use it like this?"

Cherior moaned. "Oh. Yeah."

   


* * *

  


In Raphael's class, Cherior doodled in his writing book. He was supposed to  
be writing down whatever came to mind.

'Class is boring.'

He stared at the page for a moment longer, then added on the line below,  
'Class is very boring.'

Teeth worked at the end of his pencil.

'Class is very fucking boring.'

He stared out the window, daydreamed for a moment. Of. Devecia. Face down on  
his bed.

'Dev wants me to fuck him' he wrote, then stared at the page, not really  
believing he'd written that. Even if Dev had been pretty obvious. Not something  
he wanted Raphael to read. Not knowing what to do about it.

"Time's up," Raphael said, clapping his hands. "Next step? We  
burn the page you wrote. Come, come, crumple it, here's some fire, throw it  
in..."

   


* * *

  


"Soup and sandwiches," Devecia told him. "You make the soup,  
I'll make the sandwiches."

Cherior looked at him suspiciously, waiting for the trick. Dev smiled back.  
"Well," Cherior said. "Soup. I can manage soup."

"From scratch. Instructions are written out on the counter. Ingredients  
are set out. All you have to do is follow the instructions."

Anger, blinding, and he just sputtered at the smiling Devecia, who turned.  
Cherior noticed that the green-haired boy's jeans were particularly tight that  
day.

"Don't worry," Dev said over his shoulder. "It's just chicken  
noodle. You'll be fine. Go on."

   


* * *

  


"Dev, is it supposed to smoke like that?"

   


* * *

  


Soup was fine, after they'd thrown out the first batch of noodles. Soup was  
good. Sandwiches went well with them. Devecia kept watching him as he ate.

"What?" Cherior asked finally, unnerved.

"I need to talk to you," Devecia said.

Cherior took an aggressive slurp of soup. "Fine. Talk."

"Okay, so we've got a little relationship problem here," Dev said,  
fiddling with his braid.

Cherior FELT his shoulders tense. "I don't see any problem."

"So you're really dense. Let me say it flat out," Devecia said. He  
was blushing, but his voice was strong. "I want you to fuck me. You don't  
want to fuck me. Does this not come across as a relationship problem to  
you?"

There really wasn't much to say to that. Cherior picked up his spoon, put it  
down again, scowled at the bits of slightly burned chicken. "Is there  
anything WRONG with not being ready for that?" he muttered.

"Yes, there is," Dev said, clearly trying not to get angry.  
"Because I know why you're not ready. You don't want to be gay. Anal sex  
makes you gay. End of story, yes?"

Cherior stared at him. "I'm not -- I mean, we ... look,"

"Even if it's not me doing you, it's you doing me, oh look, sexual  
association with the anus." Devecia was rambling, eyes getting angrier and  
angrier. "And maybe you ARE afraid to admit that you're gay or bi or  
whatever you are but you know something? Straight guys don't DO what we do!  
Strange but true! Wake up and smell the fucking coffee, Cherior! You are fucking  
a man, you just aren't doing all the stuff that'd make that particular man  
HAPPY! Fuck it, I'm asking you to take my cherry, Cherior!"

Blank anger, and then, suddenly, inappropriately, Cherior found that last  
line extremely funny and began to laugh. "Cherry, Cherior? What the FUCK,  
Dev?!" He laughed louder.

Devecia threw a sandwich at him. "Oh, fuck OFF."

The humour died away and Cherior rose, suddenly, chair clattering to the  
ground. "What the fuck are you going ON about, Dev? What do you want? You  
WANT to be thrown face first onto a bed and held down while I -- I--" He  
couldn't say it, couldn't even do that much. His throat closed on the words.

"Yes, Einstein!" Devecia was on his feet as well. "That is  
abso-fucking-lutely what I WANT!" He panted, angry, red-faced.

And Cherior just stared at him, stared at the way Devecia was trembling.  
Angry.

Sad.

His throat was still closed and he couldn't find any words. He remembered  
Devecia spread on the bed, not knowing he was there. Touching himself.  
Remembered the sudden heady rush and-

"Okay," he said, unable to look at Devecia any more. "Yeah,  
okay."

That threw Dev for a loop. "What?"

"Okay," Cherior said, angry. "Okay, I'll do... that. Okay? Are  
you happy?"

Devecia licked his lips. "Fuck, yeah," he murmured, voice husking.

"I am happy. I am more than happy. I ... fuck. Oh."

And suddenly, Cherior found himself not angry any more. Not at all.

   


* * *

  


They made out for a while on the bed, though they were both trembling.  
Cherior wasn't sure why. Fear. Lust. Something...

They were a nude tangle, warm flesh, pale, freckled. Hands seeking out  
familiar places and relearning them.

Cherior pushed himself onto an elbow. "Will this really be okay?"  
he asked, unsure of what he meant.

"If you get off my hair, it will be so much better than okay."

Quickly, Cherior scrambled further to the side and Devecia moved with him,  
nails raking roughly down Cherior's chest, no longer playing.

Pain. Pleasure. Cherior pinned Devecia roughly with his own body's weight,  
ate frantically at the other boy's mouth. "What do I--?"

"Lube."

A pause. "Do YOU have any?

Devecia moaned as Cherior's hand circled on his ass. "Um, yes, yes, but  
I don't know where, I got it a while ago, maybe the bathroom--"

"Fuck."

"Or maybe in the drawers, I don't--"

"Cooking oil," Cherior said.

Devecia stared at him, breath practically screaming out, heart hammering like  
construction equipment. "...that'd do."

The trip to the kitchen and back didn't particularly stick in Cherior's mind.  
He was off the bed, he was back, and Devecia was reaching towards him, reaching  
up for him and Cherior was frantic and burning and needed to touch right fucking  
now and lifted Devecia practically off the bed, touching, kissing, biting, and  
threw him over, so Devecia was face down on the bed.

And the green haired boy was squirming and begging as oil-slick fingers  
touched him.

Face buried in the bed sheets.

And suddenly, everything was perfect and all the earlier arguments seemed so  
stupid.

So fucking stupid.

"I love you," Devecia was saying. "I love you, you know, I  
love you."

Cherior took hold of white-skinned, slender hips.

"I know," he said.

   


* * *

  


The next morning, Cherior made breakfast.

The bacon was burned.

The eggs were runny.

"It's perfect," Devecia said.

And smiled, because it was true.


	11. Shall I Compare Thee?

"Something bothering you, Mikael?" Raphael asked, noting the  
unhappy downward turn of his lover's lips.

Mikael occupied himself with unpacking the picnic basket. "No, of course  
not," he said, bending his head so that his golden eyes were hidden from  
view.

Mikael was a horrible liar, and Raphael could scent an untruth from a mile  
away. But he allowed Mikael to fuss with the placement of various dishes on  
their blanket, taking in the way the sunlight played with aqua strands.  
Something was definitely wrong, because Mikael had a marked fondness for  
stretching out in the afternoon sunshine, wings stretched wide. Granted, the  
younger angel couldn't do it for very long stretches, because his very fair  
skin had two shades – beautifully pale, and lobster red. Not at all like  
Raphael, who tanned with no effort whatsoever.

In any case, Mikael was upset over something, and Raphael wasn't about to  
let it spoil a perfectly good picnic. "Mikael," he said firmly. Just  
that, which was enough to let his aqua-haired lover know that he wasn't  
fooling anybody.

Mikael finally looked up with a pained smile. "It's nothing, really,  
Raphael-sama. Just something Cherior said to me this morning. You know how he  
is, always running off at the mouth."

Raphael turned that over in his mind. "More bluster and less bite, but  
what did the little bastard say that got you all knotted up?" Cherior was  
trying, to the immense displeasure of just about everyone, to live up to the  
legend of Azrael.

Mikael looked down determinedly at his plate, and the simple fear in his  
expression made Raphael's eyes go wide with concern. "Hey," Raphael  
said gently. "You can tell me, Mikael. You can tell me."

The aqua-haired angel was twisting his hands in his lap. "He told me the  
other teachers said there's only one reason I got this job, and it wasn't on  
my ability." His voice was soft and resigned, as if he believed such a  
monstrous tale were true.

Raphael felt like someone had punched him in the gut. Because it was obvious  
that Mikael feared it was true, and Raphael couldn't stand for that.  
"Well, everyone knows how the little prick gets his jollies, and I know  
none of the teachers are talking about it like that at _all_. Except Uriel,  
and _he's_ just teasing.. And Cherior said that to your face?"

"I gave him detention. He was really angry with me."

Raphael felt the need to pound anyone who made his Mikael look like that.  
"He deserves detention run by Azrael for a month. But that is beside the  
point. You know it's not true, right?"

Mikael said quietly, "I know. But it scared me."

Raphael reached for Mikael's chin and tipped it up so he could see those  
golden eyes. "Everyone knows the fact that you're the Professor's lover is  
an asset, not an excuse. You were the top of your class, and your Exam was more  
difficult than anyone has taken in five centuries. If anyone ever deserved to be  
a teacher, it's you, Mikael. The fact that I love you has nothing to do with  
how much you love teaching." Raphael gathered his love in his arms, and  
Mikael held on to him, unprotesting. Raphael kissed him rather chastely on the  
lips. "This has nothing to do with how well you teach geography."  
Raphael stroked the arch of Mikael's wing and felt his lover shiver in his  
arms. "This has nothing to do with how well you teach mathematics," he  
murmured, burying his face in aqua strands. "Nothing to do with how well  
you teach Shakespeare," he husked in Mikael's ear, and then reconsidered.  
"Actually, it may have something to do with that last one."

He gently pushed Mikael down onto the blanket and leaned over him, their lips  
almost brushing. "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" he  
quoted, then sweetly kissed those pouting lips. He pulled back a bit to look at  
Mikael, who was delicately blushing and just made the most charming picture he  
had ever seen. "_Thou_ art more lovely and more temperate." He  
brought Mikael's hand to his lips, softly brushing the long, tapered fingers  
with adoring kisses. "Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,"  
he murmured, his tongue seeking out the tender flesh of Mikael's wrist.  
"And summer's lease hath all too short a date."

Mikael stroked the tousled locks of Raphael's hair with his free hand  
before gently tugging his former teacher down beside him. Golden eyes softened  
in the afternoon sun, in the face of love, he whispered, "Sometime too hot  
the eye of heaven doth shine." He leaned forward to brush Raphael's  
closed eyes with heartfelt kisses. "And often is his gold complexion dimm'd,"

he continued, and Raphael could feel his love smiling as gentle hands caressed  
his cheek.

Raphael sought out the gentle sloping of Mikael's neck, and between  
trailing kisses he murmured, "And every fair from fair sometimes  
declines." One hand traced Mikael's side, coming to rest on one narrow  
hip. "By chance, or nature's changing course untrimm'd." Their mouths  
met once again, exchanging a sweet kiss full of passion, tasting strawberries on  
each other's lips and feeling heady with love and desire. Raphael nibbled  
gently on the lobe of Mikael's ear, the soft gusting of his breath sending  
delicate tremors through his love. "But _thy_ eternal summer shall not  
fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st," Raphael promised,  
amethyst meeting amber.

Mikael smiled, all unhappiness banished. "Nor shall death brag thou  
wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou grow'st," he  
vowed, clasping Raphael's hand to his heart.

"So long as men can breath, or eyes can see..." Raphael whispered,  
his soul in his eyes.

"So long lives this, and this gives life to thee," they finished  
together. The picnic was forgotten, the warm summer sunshine paid no heed. They  
whiled away the afternoon, wrapped in one another's arms, loving each other.


	12. Devotion

Gabriel rubbed at his eyes. The words were starting to swim on the page in  
front of him and his traitorous eyelids felt very heavy all of a sudden. But he  
was almost done - just a little more and the candidate analysis would be done.  
He willed himself to ignore the slight tremors of his cramping writing hand -  
after all, it had been that way all night, so there was no use expecting it to  
magically get better. His office was silent except for the scritching of his  
fountain pen against parchment, since everyone else had long since gone home.

_Shouldn't you be, too?_

He resolutely ignored his niggling inner voice. He had work to do, and  
besides, if he were really being honest with himself, he didn't feel any desire  
to go back to his house in the City. Because that was what it was - a house and  
not a home. It had been for a very long time.

He squelched that thought mercilessly and went back to writing. _It is  
therefore the recommendation of the School Administration that the two  
candidates be apprenticed to experienced Soul Collectors for a period of at  
least five years, to be lengthened at the Administration's discretion._ He  
signed his name with his characteristic neat penmanship, and stamped it with the  
School's Seal. Done - finally.

He stood and stretched, trying to work out some of the kinks in his neck and  
lower back, and then collapsed on the sofa in front of his desk. He'd take just  
a short nap, and then he'd get back to work on the expenditure reports.

* * *

"The yellow wallpaper has to go. And I'm thinking about some nice  
floor-to-ceiling windows to let in some light and brighten up this place."  
A pause as someone quietly protested, before the voice continued., "Oh,  
pish. Structural integrity is _secondary_ to quality redesign. So you'll  
just have to knock that wall out. No, I don't care if you have to put an  
addition on. The WINDOWS, my dear. Do whatever you have to, but let's get some  
light in this place."

At this point, Gabriel managed to crack open an eye. "What are you doing  
in my office?" he demanded, his voice still roughened from sleep.

The Metatron stepped into view in all his glory, wearing a scandalous pair of  
iridescent vinyl shorts and a glittering poet's blouse that revealed an indecent  
amount of his chest. The grin on his face did not bode well, as far as Gabriel  
was concerned. "No, no, the question should be, what am I doing _to_  
your office? And the answer is simple! This," he indicated the walls with a  
limp wrist gesture, "is SO last eon. I mean, how can you stand it?"

Gabriel could feel his eye twitch. "I can stand it just fine. And you're  
NOT redecorating my office." He wished the Metatron would take his  
renovations schemes somewhere very far away from him.

The Metatron stamped his foot, his gray eyes flashing like the warning strike  
of lightening at the beginning of the storm. "I am too. And besides which,  
your secretaries tell me you haven't eaten or slept for days. What good are you  
to Most Holy if you run yourself into the ground, you dummy?"

Gabriel felt his ears burn. "At least I do work around here, twit."

The Metatron grabbed a handful of the front of his robes, causing Gabriel to  
jerk back in surprise, though the Voice retained his grip. Stormy eyes bored  
into his own. "He needs you. He needs you healthy and thinking rationally.  
How can you when you abuse yourself like this? Do you really think that you're  
doing anyone any good?"

The words stabbed Gabriel where it hurt most - his devotion. "Shut  
up," he whispered harshly. "I'm doing my job. You might want to try  
doing yours for a change."

The voice of the Most Holy leaned over so they were nose-to-nose. "My  
job includes making sure your eternal attempts to bury your emotions in stacks  
of paperwork don't affect your ability to perform the duty Most Holy gave you.  
Now. I've already ordered the renovation of your office, and you are now  
officially on vacation for the week."

The _week_? He just couldn't! "I have work to do, you insufferable  
child! How is it going to get done if I'm on vacation?"

"_Child_?" the Metatron screeched indignantly. "You're  
the child. It's just going to sit a week and everyone else will deal because WE  
SAY SO!!!"

"We?" Gabriel repeated weakly.

"We," the Metatron affirmed. "Now go HOME, Gabriel. And if you  
try to sneak back in or take things home to work on, I'm telling."

   


* * *

In a way, the move had been a good decision. The new house was just that - a  
house, with no memories attached, no sadness leeching from its walls, no painful  
reminders of laughter forever lost. It was perhaps with bitter irony that he  
noted what he had known subconsciously for weeks.

Today was the anniversary of the day when he had lost everything.

He wandered aimlessly throughout the house. He had carefully packed away all  
of their things and stored them in the attic. Boxes upon boxes of memories, of  
half an eternity. The new house was filled with new things, which he owned and  
yet were not his. He didn't want anything to be his. He wanted it to be `ours'.

But the Metatron was right. He wasn't doing Most Holy any good like this. So  
he ate and settled down on the plain cotton sheets of the narrow bed, with its  
impersonal blue comforter, and reached out a hand for someone who could never  
hold it again.

"Yurkemi."

   


* * *

What the Metatron didn't know would only make Gabriel feel better. After all  
\- that insufferable, flighty, effeminate secretary had only banned him from his  
office. He had failed to say anything about the School itself, which was where  
Gabriel headed first thing in the morning.

The Administrator congratulated himself on his cleverness. He knew there was  
plenty to be done at the School, and touching base with the teachers was an  
important part of his job. Yes, that was it. He was there out of duty, and not  
because a supremely powerful ditz had decided to introduce his beloved office to  
a wrecking ball.

He occasionally had fantasies of introducing the Metatron to said wrecking  
ball, but he kept those thoughts very deep inside.

Knowing full well that the last place the teachers would be this time of  
morning was in their offices, he pushed open the door to the teacher's lounge.  
It was a comfortable kind of room, with cushy furniture, a sturdy table, large  
windows, and cheerful paintings by Suriel. He could hear several people bustling  
about in the kitchenette, and the smell of gourmet coffee spurred him past his  
reluctance.

He hesitated in the doorway, watching Suriel preparing a tea service; Mikael  
was close beside him, staring at the coffee as if he were willing it to brew  
faster. He just stood and watched them, listening to their idle chatter. It  
occurred to him that she would have liked these two angels, who were  
compassionate and loving and so earnest.

Suriel, bless his heart, didn't drop anything when he turned and saw the  
Administrator in the doorway. "Good morning, Gabriel," he said as if  
it were a perfectly normal occurrence. Mikael wasn't faring quite so well - he  
looked rather silly with his mouth hanging open like that. There was a  
suspicious smile tugging at the corner of Suriel's mouth that Gabriel wasn't  
sure how he felt about, but the golden-haired angel made no comment and busied  
himself with preparing a cup of coffee. "Cream or sugar, Gabriel?"

"Black," he said absently.

Suriel turned to him and peered. "You're certain? I thought I remembered  
you liking your coffee a very pale, taupe color."

Gabriel could hear her voice as if she were standing next to him. _Idiot.  
You have time, you might as well drink something palatable._ "Maybe just  
a little cream," Gabriel conceded, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off  
his sleeve. Suriel flashed him a brilliant smile and Mikael ushered Gabriel back  
into the lounge, tea service in hand. He noted that the most recent addition to  
the teaching staff was quite a bit more confident than the nervous, shaking  
young angel he had met at the beginning of the year.

Suriel joined them, and handed Gabriel a cup and saucer. Gabriel thanked him  
quietly, and sipped it absently. He couldn't restrain his eyebrows flying up in  
surprise - the coffee was rich and very sweet. He inspected the contents of the  
cup and smiled a bit. Sugar and cream, and lots of it. She would have approved.

He was just beginning to enjoy the peaceful quiet of it all when the door  
burst open and the terrible duo tumbled in. Azrael and Raphael hit the floor in  
a tangle of limbs, laughing so hard they could barely breathe. "The  
Metatron really did kick him out. You should see Koe - he's out there with a  
parasol and blueprints," Raphael managed, still gasping on the floor.

Azrael shoved the Professor away and picked himself up off the floor.  
"His fucking shorts were blinding me." Gabriel thought about giving  
him an extra two weeks of vacation for agreeing with his opinion on the matter.

"Speaking of fucking, did you _see_ how much skin he was  
showing?" Raphael asked, still grinning merrily as he seated himself next  
to his lover.

Suriel and Mikael were pretending to look uninterested and failing miserably.

"We're talking about fucking? I see my timing is impeccable!" Uriel  
announced from the doorway. Gabriel wondered how someone could ooze sex this  
early in the morning, but Uriel was doing it with flair. He flounced into the  
room, and moved to take the only other available seat in the room. And then he  
stopped dead in his tracks.

"Gabriel?" he choked out.

Raphael and Azrael whipped their heads around, eyes widening.  
"Gabriel?" they repeated, shocked.

Uriel recovered quickly and sat down next to the Administrator. The cheeky  
angel had the nerve to press one smoothly toned thigh against Gabriel's. As much  
as Gabriel would have liked to have moved over, Uriel was now taking up more  
space than one might have thought possible. He settled for carefully sipping his  
coffee again and adding Uriel to his wrecking ball fantasy.

_/You seem stressed, Gabriel dearest,/_ Uriel purred, a couple of steamy  
and unwelcome images flashing in his mind.

_/Don't start with me/_ Gabriel hissed, his lips tightening into a  
frown. _/Like I'd want the Metatron's leavings./_

Uriel's blue eyes narrowed. _/Leave him out of this. There's more than  
enough of me to go around. Besides...you seemed to like it last time./_

Gabriel wasn't sure if Uriel had sent him the image, or if it had risen,  
unbidden, in his own mind. A flash of Uriel, nude and crying out underneath him,  
twisted through his thoughts. He scowled fiercely at the sensual pout on the  
Angel of Wrath's face.

"Uriel, why don't you come help me in the kitchen?" Suriel asked  
sweetly, though everyone in the room knew that was _not_ a request. Uriel  
looked like he would protest for a moment, but stood, flicked his hand through  
his hair, and then sauntered into the kitchenette.

Gabriel cleared his throat and caught Raphael's eyes. "Actually, I've  
been meaning to speak with you, Professor." The use of Raphael's title had  
the desired effect of snapping Raphael to business. Raphael nodded and rose, his  
fingers drifting in a caress over Mikael's shoulder before he followed Gabriel  
out the door.

They walked along together in comfortable silence to Raphael's office,  
whereupon the Professor shut the door with an audible click. "Now,"  
Raphael began, sitting in his desk chair. "Mind telling me why you look  
like hell?"

Gabriel had walked over to the window and turned sharply at the question.

"I don't-"

"You DO. You look as bad as you did when..." Raphael trailed off,  
his amethyst eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Gabriel, what is this about? Why  
are you pushing yourself so hard?"

Gabriel stared at him hard for a few minutes, before turning on his heel.  
"It's nothing. Do you have some paperwork here, or should I go to Uriel's  
office?"

He had forgotten the Professor could move that fast. "Gabriel, don't you  
dare. I'm trying to HELP, dammit. What are you running away from?" Raphael  
stood very close, boxing Gabriel into a corner.

Gabriel turned his head away from the penetrating amethyst gaze. "It's  
nothing. I'm just...having nightmares. Nothing serious."

Raphael clasped a hand on his shoulder. "It is something, else the  
Metatron wouldn't have contrived to get you out of your office."

"He didn't-" Gabriel protested, but Raphael quelled him with a  
look.

"He did, and at Most Holy's prompting, I'm sure."

Gabriel stayed silent for a moment, thinking.

_He just wants to help._

Gabriel's eyes widened in panic. "Did you say that?" he demanded of  
Raphael.

Raphael blinked. "Say what?"

It had been her voice. He was sure of it. He was going crazy, he had finally  
cracked. "Nothing," he denied hastily. "Listen, I thought I'd  
help you out a bit with some paperwork."

Raphael snorted. "No way. You're supposed to be on vacation. The  
Metatron will have my hide, or worse, stick me in those shorts."

"Raphael, _please_. It's Yurkemi."

   


* * *

Raphael froze. Yurkemi was dead. Yurkemi was worse than dead. Yurkemi had  
been murdered by the Morning Star during the Rebellion. Only two things happen  
to the souls of dead angels - they are destroyed, or they are reincarnated as  
humans.

"Holy living fuck," Raphael whispered. "She's been  
reincarnated, hasn't she?"

Gabriel looked even more exhausted than he had before, which was saying a  
lot. "I'm not sure. I don't know. All I know is I can't sleep without  
seeing her...they way I found her when...I just don't want to sleep. I can't  
STAND it. And lately it seems like I can hear her voice, and I'm not sure if  
it's me or if it's really her." It sounded to Raphael as though the words,  
having been kept inside so long, were just tumbling out of Gabriel's mouth, as  
if he couldn't get them out fast enough.

Gabriel always did this. He ignored his problems until they buried him.  
Actually, to be more specific, he had done this since Yurkemi's death. While he  
hadn't been the life of the party before, he certainly wasn't as anal as he was  
now.

Yurkemi and Gabriel had been two halves of a whole. Twins who did everything  
together, it had been once a common saying that they couldn't exist apart.  
Raphael had found it to be a sick and twisted irony afterwards when it became  
apparent that Gabriel really couldn't live without her and became a muted shadow  
of the angel he had been before.

Raphael made a decision. "We're going to find out. Come on." He  
pulled a protesting Gabriel along with him as he struck out for the Tower.

"Oh no," Gabriel said as they reached the steps of the Tower.  
"I'm not asking Him. This is stupid, Raphael. I'm just going to go home and  
get some rest."

Raphael clenched his teeth. "You're coming with me or I will hit you  
over the head and drag you. It's for your own good, Gabriel. Now what's it going  
to be - are you going to walk up there of your own free will, or do I have to  
give you a goose egg first?"

Gabriel looked faintly shocked. "Azrael's been a bad influence on  
you," he remarked sourly, but nevertheless, started up the stairs.

The Metatron pointed to the couch the minute they walked in his office.  
"Have a seat, Gabby," he said crisply. "You may wait over there,  
Raphael," he said dismissively, indicating a window seat with a wave.

Raphael sat down and watched Gabriel do the same, on an appalling pale pink  
couch. The Metatron made his way over, and then straddled Gabriel's lap. The  
administrator yelped and attempted to shove the Voice off him.

"Stop it," the Metatron snapped. Then he stiffened, and Raphael  
watched the transformation take place. It was quick, the way Koe's voice would  
shift from his usual tenor to an androgynous alto, and his gray eyes turned  
shining silver. "You've not been well, Gabriel," the Voice said  
softly.

"I haven't been well since she died," Gabriel said hoarsely, his  
attention riveted on silver eyes. "I'm going insane. I dream of her. I hear  
her."

"Not insane," the Voice corrected gently. "My Raphael's  
assumption was correct. She has been reincarnated on Earth. But something  
unusual has happened, and not of My doing."

Gabriel's lips formed the word "What" but never actually spoke it.

"Someone has caused her soul to remember you," the Voice said, and  
it was displeased. Raphael shuddered a bit at the inherent threat. That was the  
rule of angel reincarnation - their souls could not remember their previous  
life.

"What can I do?" Gabriel asked, his voice strained.

The Metatron leaned forward and kissed him deeply. "You must take My  
beloved Omael and cause her soul to forget once more. Then you will be  
free."

"Don't want to be free," Gabriel whispered brokenly. "Only  
want her back."

"She must forget," the Voice repeated, kissing him once again. Then  
the spell over the room was snapped as the Metatron's eyes faded back to gray  
and he shrieked curse words and clutched at his head.

Gabriel shoved him off. "Could you NOT do that?" he demanded,  
wiping at his mouth in disgust.

"It wasn't MY idea," the Metatron retorted hotly, shaking with  
fury. "Just because Most Holy likes to make out with you doesn't mean _I_  
want to at all. And I don't, you insensitive bastard, thanks for asking!"

Raphael forestalled the Metatron from hurling a paperweight in Gabriel's  
direction. "We'll be going now," he said quickly, pulling Gabriel  
along with him.

The Metatron stared at the ceiling. "I'm not talking to you."

A pause.

"I think you get a sadistic kick out of it, that's what I think."

Another pause.

"Well, how should I know? Maybe he just doesn't LIKE tongue."

   


* * *

Her soul was like a beacon, and Gabriel could feel pulsing in his bones. It  
took no effort at all to find her home among all the other souls in the world,  
with Omael right behind him.

Omael had his good days and his bad days, but today was fortunately one of  
the former. Gabriel suspected that was due to the fact that the mentally  
unbalanced angel had spent the morning getting an earful from Most Holy. They  
stayed intangible as they Keyed into a modest dwelling.

There.

A young woman was curled up on a couch, sipping tea and reading a novel. And  
suddenly, she snapped the book shut and looked straight at him. Gabriel cursed  
mentally. He was intangible and she could still feel the connection.

Well, there was no point in hiding now. He went tangible, and her eyes  
widened. For, despite death, they were still twins. Pale blue eyes and  
white-gold hair, they were mirrors of each other. Except he was old and she was  
young, and she was happy and he was choking so hard on his own grief that he  
didn't know if he could draw his next breath. "Yurkemi," he rasped after a  
few moments, his voice hoarse with anguish. The girl – this ordinary girl  
bearing the soul of the one he loved best – looked terrified, but Yurkemi  
calmed her, centered her.

Next thing he knew, they were embracing and he was wracked by terrible  
shudders, finally giving into to grief that he had never been able to express,  
draining himself of the sorrow he had never been able to let go. He sobbed and  
she held him, and she was the center of his universe, she was his everything,  
and -

"Gabriel."

In that moment, he hated Omael more than anything. And yet he knew that she  
was lost to him, and he had to – he had to, because if her soul didn't  
forget, she couldn't rest at the end of her human life, and DAMMIT…

All he had ever wanted was for her to be happy.

So he nodded to Omael, and the Recorder took out his book and touched the  
quill to the girl's forehead, and then crossed out a line in his book. She  
went limp in his arms, unconscious. "Go away," Gabriel hissed. "Get the  
fuck out of my sight, Omael, and leave us alone." The Recorder flung him a  
contemptuous look, but Keyed back to Heaven without a further word.

He picked her up with ease and sat with her on the couch, his fingers  
smoothing her hair. He felt hollow, and was dimly aware of the beginnings of a  
headache.

"Amazing, isn't it? She looks just like she did before."

Gabriel looked up, and when he saw Belial, one of the four Demon Princes, he  
clutched the girl closer to him. "You did this," he said quietly.

Belial looked oddly pained. "I do what I'm ordered to do. Not that it  
made much of a difference." He was beautiful still, and Gabriel wanted to  
carve him up and make him PAY for what he'd done.

"It makes all the difference, you spineless coward," Gabriel said evenly.  
"Because she was finally reincarnated, and she didn't deserve this. She didn't  
deserve what the Morning Star did, either."

Belial's lips thinned. "It was war. There were bound to be casualties."

Gabriel pinned him the fiercest glare he had ever bestowed on anyone. "This  
was not a war casualty. This was cold-blooded FUCKING murder. Morning Star  
wanted her and she didn't want him – she wouldn't go with him." He felt  
his voice getting paradoxically quieter as he got angrier. "He pinned her to  
the wall like a butterfly specimen. She died slowly and with great pain, and all  
that while, I could hear her crying for me and I couldn't go to her because I  
was busy fighting YOU off."

Belial raised an eyebrow, frankly disbelieving. "Who tells you these  
things, Gabriel? The Morning Star did no such thing."

"News flash," Gabriel said tiredly. "Morning Star doesn't exactly  
have scruples. He murdered her and lied to you, and killed others and denied  
Most Holy's commands. He's a fucking sociopath. And you're a weak,  
unprincipled, pathetic excuse for life, because you don't think for yourself.  
And that was really the problem, wasn't it? Raphael loved you and you were  
content to always let him lead, until the Morning Star bent your ear and twisted  
you so far you couldn't see which way was up."

Belial wasn't listening. "Are you finished spouting lies?" he asked  
casually, looking phenomenally bored.

Gabriel felt his fury melt away into exhausted frustration. "They're not  
lies. But I promise you this - if you ever touch this woman or her family again,  
I will sic Azrael on you."

Belial met his eyes for one long moment, then took up his Court Key and  
disappeared.

Gabriel turned his attention back to the girl. So young. Maybe 25 years old?  
It was hard for him to tell, sometimes.

He had to know her name.

He hated telepathy – had always hated doing it with anyone else besides  
Yurkemi. It just seemed profoundly wrong to be able to talk that way, with that  
level of intimacy, with anyone else but her. However, this was an exception. So  
he reached inside, reached far, and brushed the Metatron's mind.

_Gabriel?!_ the Voice of Most Holy demanded incredulously.

_Her name. Ask Him what her name is._

A pause. _Beatrix._

Gabriel severed the mental connection and felt the girl stirring in his arms.  
Her eyes fluttered open, sending a jolt through his heart. "Don't be afraid,"  
he whispered.

Her eyes were wide and confused, but she seemed calm, as though thinking it  
were all a dream. "Who are you?" she asked quietly.

Gabriel smiled gently. "I am the angel Gabriel. What do you pray for,  
Beatrix?"

Her answer gave him food for thought, and he rushed as quickly as was seemly  
back to Heaven.

   


* * *

"Ardouisur!"Gabriel called. "Dammit, woman, where are you when I need  
you?!!! Ardouisuuuur!"

"I'm right here, you bellowing idiot. What do you want?" she demanded  
crisply. She had clearly been working in her Gardens, as her face was smudged  
with dirt and she was wearing what appeared to be some castoff clothing of one  
of her tenants - probably the green-haired boy's.

Gabriel launched into it, outlining his problem. "So you see, Yurkemi can't  
remember me anymore, but she's still Beatrix, and she wants a baby but her  
husband is sterile, so I need your help to make her happy."

Ardouisur quirked an eyebrow. "I'm trying to figure out how this isn't  
incest."

"Never mind that!" Gabriel said dismissively. "I just want you to help  
her conceive."

She was grinning now. "I don't know…it kind of smacks of the Virgin  
Birth. You know, Gabriel, I usually help women who are physically incapable of  
conceiving. The problem here isn't her – it's her husband."

"Can you help or not?" Gabriel demanded, supremely irritated.

She smiled sweetly. "Of course I'll help. I loved Yurkemi too, you know."  
She stripped off her shirt and Gabriel's eyes widened in alarm.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he said, and cursed his voice for squeaking a  
little.

Ardouisur calmly removed the rest of her clothing and started in on his. "We're  
going to answer a prayer."

"Out _here_?" Gabriel asked, scandalized.

She giggled. "You're such a prude. And to think, Uriel tells me you're  
all rough and fierce in bed."

"I'll kill him," Gabriel moaned as she pulled him to the ground.

   


* * *

Gabriel was beyond elated. He was surreptitiously looking through a baby  
catalogue, trying to decide which crib he ought to buy for his niece. He had  
been visiting Beatrix for months now while her husband was at work. She accepted  
his explanation that he just had a vested interest in herself and her unborn  
child, which was true and seemed to be enough for her.

He was going to be an _uncle_.

Beatrix had shyly asked him to be godfather to her child, and he had agreed.  
He knew he was breaking about six different rules, but he just didn't CARE.  
Beatrix was happy, which meant Yurkemi was happy, which meant Gabriel was  
slightly less nasty to everyone around him. Just slightly.

"Gabby, darling, I'm so glad I renovated your office. The light in here  
is just marvelous, now," the Metatron announced as he breezed in.

Gabriel hid the catalogue under some papers. "Dammit, will you put some  
CLOTHES on?" he exclaimed. The Metatron was once again wearing those damn  
iridescent daisy dukes.

The Metatron paused and looked over his shoulder. "What's your problem? I'm  
covered."

Gabriel groaned. " I can't imagine how your blood can circulate with  
those on."

The Metatron perked up. "Hold on a sec. He wants to talk to you."

Gabriel swore and tried to prepare himself for the inevitable assault. Sure  
enough, the Metatron hopped into his lap. "You've been busy," the Voice  
murmured in alto tones.

"I'm not breaking any rules that are listed in the book," Gabriel  
managed, sounding slightly strangled.

The Metatron frowned. "You didn't precisely ask for My permission,  
either. However, We'll allow it on grounds of extenuating circumstances. Just  
keep it private, if you please, Gabriel."

Gabriel nodded once and thankfully didn't sputter as the Metatron – Most  
Holy – leaned forward and engaged him in a lurid kiss. He tried very hard not  
to think as a talented tongue danced with his own, and teeth gently nibbled on  
his lips. He drew the line when the Metatron began to nip at his earlobe, and  
one manicured hand made a dangerous path down his chest. "Stop!" he  
protested breathlessly, pushing the Metatron away. "No offense, my Most Holy,  
but why do you _do_ that?"

The Metatron shrugged gracefully. "You're stressed and sort of sexually  
repressed. I really think you ought to get laid more often. I am certain My  
Uriel could make some recommendations." Gabriel stared at those silver eyes.  
"Oh, by the way," the Voice said as an afterthought. "I like the name  
Angela. You'll pass that on, won't you?"

Gabriel gulped and the Metatron's eyes faded back to gray. The effeminate  
secretary swore profusely and scowled at the ceiling. "Helloooo! My shorts  
stop fitting when you do things like that. Do you MIND?!!!" He walked out in a  
huff and Gabriel stared after him.

And then, finally, he began to laugh.


	13. Turnabout

Uriel lit a cigarette and gazed, more than a little angstily, at the pillar  
that rose from the Palace to be highlighted against the moon.

The Metatron's Tower.

What /was/ he going to do? he mused, inhaling the smoke, letting it trail up  
over his upper lip like a kiss.

Review the facts.

One. The Metatron was madly and passionately in love with him. Uriel winced  
inwardly. Bad, bad, bad. Having the most powerful and the most ditzy angel in  
the Heavenly Realm in love with you, when you... when you didn't...

Two. The Metatron threw the most queen-ish screeching fit Uriel had seen for  
years when, finally convinced that the Metatron WASN'T going to try to hurt  
himself, he decided to go out for some time on the town. He snorted smoke. He  
wasn't going to stop his enjoyment of others. Not even for the Metatron. Even  
if...

Three. Uriel let his eyes close and rubbed the bridge of his nose between two  
fingers. Three. He wasn't sure how he felt...

"It'll kill you, you know," a husky voice murmured behind him. A  
very familiar voice.

Uriel was on his feet, facing away from the Tower at once.  
"Miniel!" he shouted, delighted, letting the cigarette fall from his  
hands, to the rock below, where it sputtered out. "It's been..."

Miniel smiled, or Uriel thought he did. It was hard to tell; the angel of  
lust was rather well hidden. Wrapped several times around by a cloak, wearing  
billowy garments that completely obscured his form, with the hood of his cloak  
thrown up over his halo and head, and with a cloth covering his nose and mouth  
to make his breathing quieter -- as if Miniel's breathy tone /needed/ to get  
quieter. It was hard to see anything of him except for the pure blue eyes that  
sparkled at Uriel's startled stare. "A while, yes."

"What's with all that?" Uriel asked dryly, gesturing at the  
clothing. "Don't tell me you've been scarred?" Even as he said it, he  
worried that it might be true. Miniel had always been so vain...

"No," Miniel said. "But I'm not back for long, and it's not  
official, so I don't really want to be seen. So..." he gestured one gloved  
hand at the Tower. "Why were you moping?"

There was no way he was answering that, not to Miniel. Uriel smiled silkily,  
took a few steps into Miniel's personal space, and wiggled his hand between  
layers of cloth to find skin, soft, smooth skin. "No reason. Staying for  
long?" Letting his hand slide lower, he raised his other to pull Miniel's  
cloth mask away, revealing the full lips he remembered.

"Longer now, perhaps," Miniel whispered, capturing Uriel's lips  
with his own.

They kissed, and Uriel tugged Miniel's cloak away, totally unprepared for  
Miniel's sudden, "Don't!"

Uriel swallowed, taking a step back. "Your..."

The hood had been stuffed to make it look taller, and Miniel's halo was  
missing.

"An accident," Miniel murmured. "I'll get it back, don't  
worry." His voice was convincing, assured. Well on the path to retrieving  
his halo, the voice implied. His clothing slid away as if designed to do just  
that and Uriel swallowed again for a very different reason. There was a reason,  
he remembered, that he and Miniel had been such good friends way back when. Even  
now, Miniel's muscled, Greek-god body glowed, huge sweeping wings tucked behind  
him.

Miniel bent his head again to Uriel's and his weight bore them to the ground.

"Don't think of it," Miniel murmured. "Just don't think of  
anything."

   


* * *

Clothing slipped, without much effort, to the floor to end up in a pile of  
gauzy cloth of mildly mismatched colours. He stretched, body shimmering  
slightly, wings outstretched, and then quite literally dove into the deep end of  
his bath.

The Metatron's bath was what other people called a pool. Or a lake.  
Depending.

He swam lazily, lazily, then sputtered as Most Holy's sudden comment  
distracted him, sent him under the waters. "NOT when I'm busy," he  
shrieked.

And then froze, eyes wide. "Well, YOU should know where he is.  
Why--"

And he was scrambling for the lip of the tub, ignoring towels and reaching  
for clothing. Not wanting to waste time.

Uriel. He had to find Uriel.

Most Holy couldn't.

   


* * *

Raphael was looking for spare overheads when Uriel found him, crept up and  
pounced. "Wah!" More off-balance than usual, with the sleekly muscled  
angel clinging to him, Raphael fell forward into the shelves. "Uriel!"

A tongue found Raphael's ear, worked it.

And suddenly unimpressed, Raphael span, pushed Uriel away. "No,  
Uriel."

Uriel smiled, reached forward. Ran a finger down Raphael's chest. "Aw,  
come on. It's good for you."

"No," Raphael said, firmly. "NO, Uriel. I have Mikael now. You  
know how I feel about monogamy."

"Mikael?" Uriel said blankly. "Who's Mikael?"

Raphael's lavender eyes widened. "Uriel? You okay? Got hit on the head  
or something?" He looked at the dark circles under Uriel's eyes and  
frowned. "Actually, you don't look that good. Are you sick? Maybe you  
should go home. Let the Metatron make you some soup or something. Okay, that  
wouldn't make you BETTER, but..."

A step back, and a bright smile. "No, no, I'm fine, Raphael. Sorry. Just  
not thinking. Right, didn't mean to try to get between you and Mikael. Oh! Have  
you seen Cassiel? I wanted to talk to him about something."

More worry spread through Raphael's middle. "Uriel, Cassiel's been on  
assignment to earth for five months now." Again, that blank expression on  
Uriel's face. "Now, look, you're going to bed. Now. Alone, preferably.  
You've got classes, you can't afford to get sick now. Come on." He reached,  
touched Uriel's elbow, and Uriel jerked away.

Wide-eyed. Scared. He looked scared.

"No, it's all right," Uriel said. "Sorry. I'll see you around,  
okay?"

Blue eyes pleaded.

And Uriel let the door swing shut behind him.

Raphael stared at the door for a minute, then went to find Gabriel.

Quickly.

   


* * *

The Metatron burst into Gabriel's office, grey eyes dark with worry, chest  
heaving. Silken clothes clung to his skin, hiding nothing, darker where the  
wetness from his bath had seeped through, and his hair was down from its usual  
ponytail, soaking his shirt and hanging in his eyes.

"Gabriel!" he shouted, leaning down to put his hands on the  
Administrator's shoulders. "Gabriel, have you seen Uriel?" His voice  
was sharp, thick with panic.

Gabriel stared at him for a moment as if he didn't recognize the thin, pale  
whirlwind that had entered his office, then threw himself back as if he'd been  
touched by something slimy and disgusting. "Metatron, I'm BUSY. If you're  
missing your lover, try checking other people's beds."

"No, that's not it, that's not it at all." The Metatron was  
babbling at him, leaning forward so that his shirt slowly peeled away from damp  
skin with the sound of wet silk. Gabriel could see a nipple and didn't want to.  
"No, Gabriel, He can't find him either, it's no good, there's something  
terribly wrong, and Uriel's not here and He can't find him..."

Nostrils flared in Gabriel's face. "Watch your damned referents,  
Metatron. I have no idea what you are TALKING about."

The Metatron slammed a fist down onto the desk. His face was red and so  
screwed up that his eyes had shut. "Uriel is missing and I can't find him  
and Most Holy can't find him and--"

Raphael burst into the room. "Gabriel, I just saw Uriel and--"

A moment of silence as everyone stared at each other. Then the Metatron span  
and grabbed Raphael.

"You saw Uriel!"

Raphael nodded, jerkily. "Um, yes, I saw Uriel, only something's not  
right." He pushed the Metatron back, gently, and Gabriel saw that the  
Metatron was crying, softly.

He felt bad, then caught himself feeling bad and stared at a wall instead.

Hands wove through the air as Raphael started to explain. "He... he  
didn't know who Mikael was and he didn't know that Cassiel's on Earth. I mean,  
Cassiel and he often work together for classes when Cassiel's here, of course  
Uriel knows that Cassiel's gone. But he didn't know. There's something terribly  
wrong."

Gabriel blinked and checked the calendar. Five months and two and a half  
weeks. "The Angel of Tears has been gone for /months/," he said,  
softly, beginning to find the problem. "Uriel went to the party to see him  
off."

"And he was talking," Raphael said, petting the Metatron's hair.  
"Like Uriel does. But he looked sad. And scared. In the eyes. Even as he  
was smiling. I thought he was sick. But--"

Gabriel rose. "Raphael, check the school. I'll check the barracks and  
the Metatron can check the city. Not much of a chance, but it's a place to  
start. If there's something wrong with Uriel... he's too powerful. He needs to  
be found. NOW. So we can find out what's wrong."

The Metatron was still crying, crying and nodding, manicured hands over face.

"We don't have time for this," Gabriel said, trying to moderate his  
voice because he realized, seeing that, that the Metatron wasn't hysterical. Not  
at all.

He was scared, because it was completely obvious that something was terribly  
wrong, that his loved one might... not longer be... there.

And Gabriel could only appreciate that. Even if the papers on his desk were  
wet from the Metatron leaning over them. "We'll find him," he said,  
gently. "But we have to start now."

   


* * *

Cassiel wasn't here.

Cassiel was on earth.

Oh, it figured. How it /figured/.

Cassiel was needed for the plan to work. Wasn't he? It might be POSSIBLE to  
get this done without Cassiel there.

Without the Angel of Sorrow. Without the Keeper of the Gates.

It would just take more work.

   


* * *

Raphael ran through the school, checking out Uriel's favourite hangouts, and  
when that turned up no results, began randomly opening doors.

Random sometimes worked.

Classes full of stupefied students stared at him for a moment before the  
doors closed again. At one point, Mikael blinked at him, and Raphael shrugged,  
thought a telepathic, Urgent, glanced around the room, and left, leaving Mikael  
trailing mental questions behind him.

Nothing. Tossing the Lounge door open one last time, hopefully, he saw  
nothing but Suriel and Azrael, who both looked up at him, surprised.

"Raphael?"

Quickly, Raphael outlined the problem.

And smiled sympathetically as Azrael began to spew curses.

   


* * *

Gabriel threw the Barracks door open and took a quick look around. Some  
soldiers looked up from a card game, startled.

"Uriel," Gabriel said, quick and to the point. "Have you seen  
Uriel?"

The soldiers looked at each other and snickered. "EVERYONE's seen Uriel  
at one point or another," one pointed out.

This wasn't the time. "Where's the captain?" Gabriel snarled.

It slowly seemed to dawn on the others that Gabriel was in a Mood, and one --  
blond -- rose quickly. "I'll get him, sir."

Not long, but far too much time later, Raguel came from another room,  
toweling off his short sky-blue hair. "Gabriel. What brings you here?"

Raguel was an impressive angel. Most strong angels in the school were sleekly  
muscled, lithe, catlike. Raguel fell more under pure force. Not ugly, but very  
tall, with shoulders that made most people do a double take to see if they were  
real.

"Uriel is missing," Gabriel said shortly. "Have you seen  
him?"

"No. Is it urgent?" Raguel asked the last as if ready to set out  
tactics when the word was given.

Gabriel weighed that. "Yes, it is."

"Did he go over?" Raguel asked. "It's been a betting matter  
for a long time now when exactly he'd go to the Morning Star. The way he  
acts--"

The Administrator felt his lips tighten and couldn't seem to stop them. Uriel  
could be somewhat...hedonistic, it was true, but his loyalty was something that  
Gabriel had NEVER had cause to doubt. "No. He didn't. He's unwell and not  
in his right mind at the moment, and considering how powerful he is, we want him  
found."

"Unwell?" Raguel murmured. "Well, that's what he gets for  
acting like a whore."

The soldiers laughed.

"If you see him--"

"Take him into custody?"

Gabriel hated owing them anything. "Yes. And bring him straight to  
me."

"Of course," Raguel said, smiling. "I wouldn't dream of  
anything but."

Eyes widened and Gabriel stared at him for a moment, wondering -- then turned  
and left. It wasn't worth arguing the point.

   


* * *

Once in the city, the Metatron realized again how very large it was.

Dead souls, everywhere. He grabbed one, ignoring the woman's wide-eyed fear.  
"Excuse me, miss. Have you seen an angel, about so tall, 30s-style gangster  
pinstripe suit..."

She was shaking her head, rapidly. "No, my lord. Haven't seen any angels  
for a long time. I'm sorry, my lord..."

He let her go, looked around frantically. Where did Uriel /go/ in the city?  
He set off for the dwellings of some of the angels he knew, hoping--

Not with Camael. Nor here... nor there... not with...

Almost ready to give up, already giving in to tears a little, he burst into  
his brother's house.

Sandalphon looked up from the book he was reading and took one look at his  
twin's wild eyes and heaving chest. "Metatron... what..."

"Sand," the Metatron choked, and threw himself forward into his  
brother's arms.

Quietly, Sandalphon rubbed the Metatron's back, between his wings, until the  
panicked sobs had quieted somewhat. He rose, smiling down at his brother's  
still-shaking form. "Come on. I'll get you some tea and you can tell me all  
about it."

Sniffing, the Metatron nodded.

Muted robes swished as Sandalphon moved towards his small kitchen, working  
quietly and efficiently to put the tea on. His own hair was the same colour as  
the Metatron's, though he let his fall straight without the decorated ponytail  
the Metatron favoured. The difference between them was in the eyes --  
Sandalphon's were gold -- and the attitude. When the Metatron entered a room,  
everything about him screamed for attention. Sandalphon was quiet in every means  
\-- movement, vocally, his clothing, his posture. There was always tea on at  
Sandalphon's; The Metatron was lucky if he remembered how to boil water.

The Metatron dug out a pink handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

"Here," Sandalphon said, handing a teacup to the Metatron  
carefully. "So. Are you going to tell me?"

Sipping the tea, the Metatron sniffed again, wondering where to start.  
"I fell in love."

"Ah." Sandalphon winced. "A dangerous beginning. And this  
person didn't love you back?"

Chewing on his bottom lip, the Metatron realized he'd forgotten his lip gloss  
that morning. "Well, no, he doesn't, but that's not the trouble, we've got  
an arrangement, but he, there's something wrong with him--"

Slowly, falteringly, the Metatron explained.

"Call the angels," Sandalphon suggested, when the Metatron had  
finished.

The Call was an ability belonging only to the Metatron, a gift of Most Holy.  
When he wanted, he could force all the angels to gather. Everyone knew that  
eventually it would be used for when war was finally declared on the Court. To  
think of using it so frivolously--

Gray eyes opened wide. "No, I can't. It's too dangerous. I mean, anyone  
in the infirmary would be called. It just can't--"

Sandalphon smiled at him. "Ask for an exception. Go on. It's your gift,  
after all. You should be able to narrow it down, exclude one building at  
least."

"But--"

"Go on," the golden eyed angel said, gently.

The Metatron looked inside, got a go-ahead.

"Okay," he said uncertainly, then suddenly excited, "Okay.  
Yes. Okay."

   


* * *

Raphael and Gabriel were together in the Administrator's office when they  
felt the Call.

"He isn't," Gabriel said, disbelieving.

"He is," Raphael said, nodding and smiling slightly.

"The classes--"

They watched teachers leave their classroom and head towards the field in  
front of the school.

"Come on, G-man," Raphael said softly. "We have to."

It burned inside them, this call, this desperate 'adeste angeli' that  
thrummed through them, matching rhythms with their heartbeats.

"I'll kill him," Gabriel muttered.

Raphael was already at the door, leaning towards the call like a willful  
kitten. "He couldn't do it alone, you know. He has to have  
Permission."

When they got out there, the field was already nearly full. Only with full  
angels, of course, but when those who taught and those who fought and those who  
lived in the city were all gathered, it could be impressive.

It /was/ impressive.

And above them, glowing like a star, the Metatron floated, back arched, mouth  
opened.

Uriel was there. Raphael saw him, standing, gaping, scared.

And the Metatron had seen him too, was flying down, wings stirring up leaves.

"Uriel. Step forward." Voice alto, warm.

Uriel didn't, and the Voice frowned, reached out, caressed the angel's cheek.  
"Who are you?"

"Miniel," Uriel said, a note of panic in his voice. He was clearly  
trying to step back.

Whispering.

Everything suddenly made much more sense to Raphael. Miniel, as the angel who  
incited lust in otherwise unwilling people, was able to possess bodies through  
sexual intercourse. It made perfect sense in a crazy world only, though --  
Miniel was faithful. Had always been faithful. Why would he possess Uriel?

"Miniel?" the Metatron asked, clearly thinking along some of the  
same lines. "Why are you--"

Uriel -- Miniel -- laughed, suddenly. "No. You won't ask me any more  
questions. You won't."

"--in Uriel's--"

Uriel's hand lashed out and he smashed his hand alongside the Metatron's  
face. Even channeling the Most Holy, the Metatron's slender body was rocked back  
by the blow.

Someone in the crowd screamed.

Eyes wide, the Metatron's hand moved up to his cheek. Miniel --Uriel -- was  
backing off, looking for a way out of the crowd.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, something blazed in the Voice's silver eyes and  
his hands lashed out, grabbing Uriel's shoulders, manicured nails digging in.  
"You will give Me Uriel back."

Uriel's mouth fell open.

"NOW," the Metatron -- Most Holy -- hissed, and Uriel was suddenly  
stumbling, collapsing.

Shaking.

"Koe?" he whispered, shivering.

The Metatron's eyes flashed at the crowd. "Miniel is back in his body.  
Find him now. And bring him to me."

And only then did he wrap his arms around Uriel, firmly, just holding on,  
tears seeping from closed eyelids.

   


* * *

Shit, Miniel thought, getting to his feet quickly enough that he got a head  
rush. Shit shit shit. He had to get out of there.

Key. He fumbled, concentrated, bringing the key to shape in his hand.

And was gone to earth.

He looked around, thought hard. Five months on Earth. Where would Cassiel  
spend five months? It was always so hard to tell. Raphael loved Japan, Suriel  
had a fondness for Vienna. Cassiel had never seemed to have a fondness for any--

England.

It /always/ rained in England.

   


* * *

"He's gone to Earth," The Metatron muttered, then raised his eyes  
at the people remaining. "He's gone to Earth. Somebody's gotta go there and  
get him. In pairs, in case he possesses someone."

More whispers. Earth was so /big--/

"He's gone after Cassiel," Raphael said, suddenly. "He's going  
to try to convince Cassiel to open the gates."

Gabriel stared. "Cassiel wouldn't--"

"Miniel's going to try." Raphael threaded his arm through Mikael's.  
The aqua-haired angel had been watching with everyone else. "Wanna take a  
trip to England, love?"

The Metatron was ignoring everyone, whispering comfort words into Uriel's  
hair. "It's all right, it's all right, I've got you, you're here."

"I'm okay," Uriel said faintly, swallowed, and tried again, pushing  
away. "I'm okay."

The Metatron jerked away at that push as if he'd been burned and they stared  
at each other for a long moment.

Uriel touched the Metatron's cheek, then tugged the Voice of Most Holy close,  
kissing him. Just kissing him.

Mikael smiled at Raphael. "England sounds lovely."

   


* * *

Cassiel had always loved finding the roots of things. Research, it always  
came down to research -- puttering around in castles and churches younger than  
he was, reading languages that most people had to be scholars to understand.

Miniel found him in Bath, studying the artifacts and carvings found in the  
healing baths at Aquae Sulis. That was so typically Cassiel that he had to  
smile.

When he tapped on Cassiel's shoulder, the Angel of Tears blinked up at him as  
if not recognizing him for a moment, then smiled a muted smile, which was about  
as close to a brilliant smile as Cassiel would ever get. "Miniel," he  
whispered. "It's been a long time."

"Too long, Cass," Miniel smiled, sitting beside the other angel as  
if he wasn't still panicked about what would be coming after him. "I hear  
you're on your sabbatical. How go your studies?"

Cassiel gestured to the mask that had been found as part of a wall mural,  
whispering enthusiastically. "Sulis Minervae" they call her, but I  
wonder if they actually were associating the two goddesses. Oh, sure, the Romans  
did, and the fact that the mineral baths here were such potent healers were what  
got it to be called MINERAL water, but the two goddesses were very different  
types. It makes one ask why exactly the Romans would choose to associate Minerva  
with this particular goddess..."

Miniel nodded, listened for a while, then smiled and put his hand on  
Cassiel's shoulder. Cassiel stopped talking at once, and Miniel knew he was  
remembering the years in school when it had been three three of them -- him,  
Uriel, and Cassiel. He and Uriel had always tried to drag Cassiel out of his  
passive shell with the result that Cassiel would actually talk freely with them.

And only them.

"I need a favour, Cass," Miniel said.

"What?"

"My key. I lost it. I need to get home -- can you open the gates? Just  
for a moment?"

Cassiel stared at him. "Open the gates just because you forgot--"

"It won't hurt anybody," Miniel said, with the air of one who's had  
to sneak in after hours before. "Just for long enough for me to get  
through. That wouldn't be a trouble, would it?"

"Actually," Raphael said conversationally from behind them,  
"that'd be a huge trouble, seeing as you're working for the Morning Star  
now."

They both turned, and Miniel realized he was trapped, now, really. No way out  
except --

"Give me your Heaven Key," Raphael said. "You're coming back  
with us."

Cassiel was shaking his head, shocked. "Miniel isn't... he  
wouldn't..." But eyes were wide. Believing.

Mikael's lips were tight. "He possessed Uriel. He hit the Metatron,  
using Uriel's body."

The Angel of Tears looked at Miniel, really looked, and his eyes closed in  
grief. "I see."

"No, come on," Miniel said, desperately. "We're friends,  
right? You know I wouldn't -- I mean, me and Uriel, we were always --"

"You were always so jealous of him," Cassiel whispered. "I see  
those things. That's what I do, Miniel. I see those things."

"Come on, Miniel," Raphael murmured. "It's over. Give up your  
Heaven Key, come along quietly, and maybe things will be easier on you."

"I'll be punished," Miniel said to Cassiel. "Wherever I go  
now, I'll be punished. I failed the Morn... I failed Most Holy. Please don't let  
me be punished. Open the gates, just a little."

"Strike team," Mikael said.

"We got things from Uriel," Raphael said. "You were in his  
head too long. We know you intended to lead a small team of demons in to attack  
people, to keep us on our toes though it wouldn't seriously do anything major.  
Maybe kill a few angels. We can't /allow/ that, Miniel. We've already lost too  
many people to the damned rebellion. We've lost too much of everything."

"I'm never going back," Miniel said.

"You don't have a choice," Raphael told him.

And Miniel smiled, held up a Court Key, and disappeared.

They stared at the spot he'd been for a moment, and then Raphael sighed,  
knelt beside Cassiel. "I'm sorry you had to get involved in this, Cassiel.  
For what it's worth, the Metatron's revoked his Heaven Key. He won't be coming  
back to--"

"Is Uriel okay?" Cassiel murmured, staring blankly at the wall.

Mikael nodded, quickly. "He... he seems fine. A bit shaken, but--"

"Do you want to come back with us?" Raphael asked. "You know,  
come home. Just to--"

"No," Cassiel whispered. "Leave me alone. Please, leave me  
alone with my ancient history."

Raphael looked helplessly at Mikael, who reached out and took his hand.  
Shaking his head.

"I'll give Uriel your regards, shall I?" Raphael asked hopelessly.

"Sure."

"Well then," Mikael said. "I'm sure I'll see you again."

"Of course."

"Goodbye, then."

Cassiel stared at the engraving on the wall for a long time, then sighed,  
wipes his eyes, and began studying the tools the Romans had used, so many years  
ago.

 

* * *

Gabriel was handling the last that needed to be dealt with in this incident.  
He had sent Uriel and the Metatron back to the Tower with a glare.

"I'm sorry," Uriel said, stroking the Metatron's cheek. "I'm  
so sorry. I tried to stop him. I could hear what he was doing. I'm sorry."

"I love you," the Metatron said, trying to find a way to explain  
that it was alright He couldn't. Other words came out instead, pointless words  
that didn't explain anything. "I was so scared. I'm so glad you're  
okay."

"Yeah," Uriel said, maybe understanding.

"I love you," the Metatron explained again.

"Yeah."

They stared at each other for a long, frantically scared moment, then leaned  
together at almost the same time.

Lips met, meshed.

Kissed the last day away.

 


	14. Medicus

There was no way Mikael was going to School today.

Absolutely no way. While Raphael had grudgingly allowed him to teach the two  
previous days with a head cold, he knew from experience that a racking cough  
like the one Mikael had would only lead to an infected class, and then the class  
would infect all the rest of the students, and the whole School would shut down.

So. It was his duty as Professor to drug Mikael up, stay home, and play  
nursemaid.

"Raph..sa.." Mikael murmured somewhere underneath the covers.  
"Time…be up?"

Raphael gently lifted a corner of the blanket to find Mikael looking  
miserable, his eyes fever-bright. "Not for you, it isn't. Go back to sleep.  
I'll make you some tea and bring you some medicine."

Mikael squeaked something in protest, but Raphael just gently tucked him back  
in. "No. You're staying home. I'll get someone to cover our classes."

"Our?" Mikael's question caught him as he was leaving the room.

"Well, who ELSE do you expect to kiss it and make it better, hmmm?"

Raphael drawled and winked. Mikael just sneezed and the bedcovers reclaimed him,  
aqua hair disappearing from view.

Well. The poor darling. Angels were a healthy bunch on the whole, but not  
immune to the occasional cold or fever. So Raphael walked briskly to his  
workroom, where he had several tisanes already made up, since he had just _known_  
that Mikael wouldn't rest properly and would, in fact, push himself harder in  
his already weakened state. Raphael frowned as he carried the tisane to the  
kitchen and started puttering around with the tea things. Mikael had this  
positive streak of…well, Gabriel-ishness that was just _maddening_.

He tapped a finger against the kettle, mentally urging it to boil faster,  
dammit. He wanted Mikael to drink something before he fell asleep again. The  
steam from the tea ought to help with a bit of the congestion, and the warmth  
would soothe his sore throat. The tisane would knock him flat out and provide  
the best remedy of all: uninterrupted sleep. Mikael was not leaving bed today,  
and not in a good way.

Raphael _wished_ that they had been ditching school for a leisurely day  
in bed. But no such luck, and now he had to convince someone that yes, it was an  
emergency, and yes, Mikael really was ill, and no, he wasn't lying.

He flipped open his cell phone – the cutest little compact digital device  
that ever existed – and speed-dialed Suriel. He waited patiently for a moment  
and the call was answered.

"What the fuck is it now?"

Raphael blinked into the phone. He'd been just sure that he'd pushed the  
right button!

"Az?" he asked carefully. "Sorry, I meant to call  
Suriel."

"He's in the shower. What do you want?" Azrael repeated, his voice  
rougher than usual – he must have just woken up.

Raphael knew this was not a good time to press his case, but he didn't really  
have a choice. "Well, Mikael's just sick to the gills, so I'm staying home  
today to take care of him. I'm trying to find someone to take over our  
classes."

His heart sank as Azrael snorted in disbelief. "Yeah, right. Listen,  
honeymoon on your own time, Raphael."

"I'm not!" Raphael protested, irritated that his reputation was  
coming back to bite him in the ass. "He's really sick and I'm not letting  
him out of the house today."

Azrael's response was cut off by Suriel's quiet greeting. "Good morning,  
Raphael. Mikael's sick today?"

Raphael breathed a sigh of relief. He had known that he could count on  
Suriel. "Just horrible, Suri. Poor thing has been coughing up a lung every  
minute he's awake, and he's terribly congested. Can you take his class  
today?"

"Don't fucking listen – " Raphael overhead Azrael butting in, but  
Suriel interrupted him.

"Of _course_ I will," Suriel said in that deadly sweet voice  
that suggested that if Azrael argued just one more time, he'd get belted in the  
gut. "You take good care of him, Raphael."

"I will, Suri. Thanks a lot," Raphael said gratefully. He clicked  
the off button. One problem solved. Now he just had to find someone to take his  
class. Which might not be so easy. Cassiel was gone. Azrael would tell him to go  
fuck himself if he even tried to ask. Ardouisur was on assignment. Who did that  
leave?

Oh dear. Uriel.

Nothing for it. Raphael shrugged and dialed Uriel's phone. Uriel picked up in  
sort of a breathless laugh. "Yes?"

Raphael heard a few suspicious noises in the background. Something like  
"please" and "now" and "faster!" in a voice that  
sounded suspiciously like Koe's. Oh dear. He'd better make this short.

"Listen, Uriel, Mikael's sick today and I need to stay home to take care  
of him. Can you cover my class?"

Uriel moaned a little into the phone. "Sure…what are you covering in  
class now?"

Koe was sounding orgasmic in the background. "Um. Nothing in particular.  
I'm sure you can handle it." Raphael could almost _hear_ Uriel's lewd  
grin at the comment and hurried on, "Well, thanks, owe you one, bye!"

He clicked off the phone and stared it for a few moments, aware that his  
cheeks were faintly red. Mikael must be rubbing off on him. Speaking of which,  
the kettle was whistling. He carefully made tea and fussed a little with the  
placement of things on the polished cherry wood tray before carrying it into the  
bedroom.

Next mission. To unearth Mikael from under the pile of blankets and get him  
to drink the tea and medicine. He knelt on Mikael's side of the futon and set  
down the tray, the china clinking slightly in the process. He peeled back the  
covers to reveal Mikael, curled up, sweat matting his bangs to his forehead. The  
poor darling. "Mikael," he called quietly. "Mikael, I need you to  
sit up for a few minutes, okay?"

Mikael rolled over onto his back and blinked blearily at Raphael.

"Nnnuh?"

Raphael slipped a supporting arm underneath Mikael's back. "Come on,  
sweetheart. We're going to sit up for a few minutes, drink our tea and medicine,  
and then go back to sleep, okay?"

Mikael nodded, and Raphael helped him up, supporting him gently.  
"Medicine first," he said, bringing a spoon to Mikael's lips. The  
aqua-haired angel swallowed obediently and then made a face at the taste.  
"Sorry, sorry," Raphael soothed. "Drink your tea."

Mikael managed about half the cup before his eyes drifted shut again. Raphael  
rescued the cup lest it tumble onto the futon from Mikael's lax grip. Then he  
gently eased Mikael back down onto the futon, covering him with just a sheet and  
one blanket. "I know you think you're cold, but you also have a devil of a  
fever right now that needs to come down. So sleep well, and the medicine should  
do the trick." He kissed Mikael's forehead once before slipping out of the  
room.

Now what?

Raphael looked around the apartment. He had to do something quiet so as to  
avoid waking Mikael up. He looked in the direction of the kitchen and dirty  
dishes, sighed, and rolled up his sleeves. He might as well clean up a bit.

Up to his elbows in soapy water, he scrubbed at the dishes, rinsed them, and  
stacked them neatly in the drying rack, just the way Mikael usually did. In  
fact, the simple chore left him feeling sort of odd, since this was something  
they usually did together in the evening. Mikael washed, Raphael dried, and they  
talked about inconsequential things. Mostly, Raphael thought, it was just nice  
to do things together. They did bump into each other at School occasionally, and  
they always had lunch together, but there were times when Raphael was alone in  
his office doing paperwork, and he wished just for Mikael's company. They didn't  
have to talk, or even be doing anything together. Just to be side by side was  
enough for him.

Raphael wandered into the living room next, almost unconsciously picking up  
his guitar before remembering that he was trying to be quiet. Mikael's silver  
guitar was in the stand beside it. Mikael played it less often than Raphael  
played his, but every once in awhile, Raphael would walk in on Mikael softly  
playing old songs on the acoustic guitar. It was, after all, the guitar that  
Mikael had learned on, but it always made Raphael shine with pleasure to see his  
former student take such obvious joy in something of his.

So. No guitar playing. Bother. That left…

Raphael scratched his head. What _did_ that leave? He could experiment  
in his workroom, but as he had a feeling he'd be spending a little too much time  
in there as it was, he didn't think that was a good idea. He sighed and sat down  
on the sofa with his laptop, and decided to get to work on some reports that  
Gabriel had growled at him to finish. Being the Professor was not all fun and  
games, sadly.

Speaking of fun and games, he wondered for a moment what Uriel was doing to  
his class.

   


* * *

  
Uriel smiled at the senior seminar. Raphael had left no lesson plans because  
there _were_ no lessons. Only random nonsense that Raphael dreamed up just  
to confuse the living hell out of his students. He had seen a scrap in the desk  
drawer that looked like a list of ideas, but as it was scrawled in Raphael's  
mostly illegible handwriting, he would just have to go with it.

"Morning, all," he greeted. "Professor's out today 'cause his  
little pumpkin has a cold, so I'm the substitute. I'm Uriel, the Angel of Wrath.  
Nice to meet you."

The class blinked at him. Maybe it was the floppy beret he was wearing. Koe  
had tried to tell him that the beret wasn't very intimidating and that if he  
were really going to frighten his students, he should go after a more  
Azrael-esque ensemble. Oh well.

He rubbed his hands together. "So! Many of you must be wondering how to  
pick up your fellow classmates, or maybe that cute first year you've seen in the  
halls – naughty- naughty! So I'll impart some of my best pick up lines, and  
then we're going to go around the room and brainstorm. I'll start! So, say you  
see that cool, unapproachable senior and you're just dying to see what they'd be  
like in bed. No pretty words are going to work here, ladies and gentlemen. You  
might as well just cut to the chase and look them straight in the eye – here,  
you, yes you, young man, stand up and demonstrate, and you, the blue-haired boy  
in the back – come up here to the front of the room. Now, stand closer –  
yes, that's right – and give him a sultry look…I said sultry, not ill. So  
you give him a sultry look and say, "Hey, nice halo. Wanna fuck?"

   


* * *

Mikael drifted back to wakefulness. His eyelids felt heavy but he opened them  
anyway. The room was flooded with early afternoon sunlight, and Raphael was  
sitting beside him in bed, reading a book.

Raphael looked over at him and smiled. It was such a breathtaking little  
smile; it was small and quiet and Raphael only ever smiled that way at him. It  
made Mikael feel warm and comfortable and loved, and he smiled back shyly.

"Hungry?" Raphael asked, stroking and kneading the outside of his  
wing, in a way that made Mikael sigh reflexively and spread his wing out a  
little more.

"Thirsty," Mikael said after a moment, but knew that Raphael would  
coax him into eating anyway. Somehow nothing seemed appetizing when you couldn't  
smell. Raphael touched his cheek gently before getting up from the futon and  
wandering to the kitchen. He came back moments later with a glass of water and  
– Mikael shuddered – more of the medicine.

"How's your throat, darling?" Raphael asked, his expression one of  
concern.

"Not so bad. The medicine helps," – even if it tastes like liquid  
death – Mikael thought privately.

Raphael leaned down and pressed their lips together briefly. "I made  
soup. Want to come eat it at the table, or do you want me to bring it to  
you?" Mikael thought it over, and then decided that what he really wanted  
was to snuggle up to Raphael and be cuddled. "Bring it here?"

"Aa." Raphael left and returned with mug of soup, which Mikael took  
from him and gingerly sipped once before deciding that his current position was  
untenable. Raphael protested laughingly as Mikael resolutely snuggled against  
him firmly, arranging Raphael's arm to curl around his shoulder. "Are you  
done rearranging my limbs?" Raphael teased, snuffling his nose into  
Mikael's wing arch.

Mikael snuffled with laughter before breaking out into coughing fit. That _hurt_.  
Raphael rubbed his back and called him all manner of ridiculous pet names.

"Here you go, angelpuff," Raphael said soothingly, handing him a  
tissue.

"'Angelpuff'?" Mikael asked him incredulously.

Raphael grinned wickedly, and Mikael felt a familiar warmth spread through  
his body at the expression. "Would you rather I called you 'pumpkin'  
again?"

Mikael rolled his eyes in horror at the remembrance of Raphael's slip last  
month while calling him down to the office - _Will Mikael please report to the  
Professor's office? Pumpkin, I can't find those envelopes!_

They talked a little more, and Mikael managed to finish his soup before his  
eyelids felt very heavy once again. Raphael cuddled him close and Mikael  
blissfully retreated to the land of very heavily drugged sleep.

   


* * *

Mikael spent the weekend recovering, and by Sunday night, he was looking and  
feeling mostly back to normal. Raphael, however, was highly conscious that  
Mikael had spent most of the weekend sleeping and he was feeling a  
little…neglected.

So he called Gabriel at his office (because, where else would he be on a  
Sunday night?) and put on his very best official voice. "Hello, Gabriel.  
It's Raphael. Listen, my students are really stressed and overworked – I think  
they deserve a surprise holiday."

He could almost hear Gabriel twitch on the other end of the line. "You,  
or them, Professor?"

"Them, definitely them." Raphael swore mentally and reached out for  
the Metatron. /Yo, Koe, want to give me some divine intervention?/

Uriel butted in. /What's in it for us?/

Raphael sent him a cheerful smile. /Monday off, if we go over Gabby's head./

A little static as the two consulted, and then Koe's voice floated through  
his mind. /It's all good. I'll lean on Gabby a little. Thanks for the idea,  
Raphael…it'll be nice to spend the day in bed, don't you think?/

Raphael blew them both a mental kiss. /Thanks. Owe you one./

He returned to his phone conversation to hear Gabriel spluttering. "What  
do you MEAN, Most Holy says so? He does? Now wait just a minute, you  
can't…well, I suppose He can. I…oh, fuck it. I give up." Gabriel hung  
up and Raphael looked at the now dead phone in satisfaction.

"Ne, Mikael…how about we spend tomorrow in bed?"

 


	15. Ribbons

p&gt;His nude body maneuvered itself out of bed, alabaster and pure like marble.  
Graceful, an arm reached up and pulled out the pin that kept his hair up, out of  
the way for the night, and a spun-gold braid tumbled down to fall to his waist.  
The tie tugged free and, as he tossed his head, his hair flared out around him  
like ribbons unwinding.

Ribbons.

There were ribbons hanging off the end of the bed and he selected seven of  
them. He began to rebraid a red one into his hair, singing softly so as not to  
wake the other occupant of the bed.

"One for those yet unborn,"

Another ribbon, orange.

"Two for the endless battle,  
One for those yet unborn,"

A yellow ribbon was tied into his hair.

"Three for a wealth of knowledge,  
Two for the endless battle,  
One for those yet unborn,"

Long fingers selected out the fourth, green.

"Four for species unfurling,  
Three for a wealth of knowledge,  
Two for the endless battle,  
One for those yet unborn,"

The figure on the bed stirred at the noise, pulling non-blankets up to a  
slender neck and turning over. Smiling, the naked man went on to his blue  
ribbon, his fifth braid.

"Five for the middle path,  
Four for species unfurling,  
Three for a wealth of knowledge,  
Two for the endless battle,  
One for those yet unborn,"

There he hesitated, turning back to the bed, eyes following the outline of  
the sexless figure in the bed. Though mainly hidden by non-blankets, his skin  
seemed to glow. The man took a few steps closer as his fingers wove in an indigo  
braid.

"Six for the love of the eldest child,  
Five for the middle path,  
Four for species unfurling,  
Three for a wealth of knowledge,  
Two for the endless battle,  
One for those yet unborn,"

One lock still hung down, unbound, the violet ribbon clutched loosely in his  
hand as he brushed the back of his knuckles over a high cheekbone, then leaned  
and touched his lips over the figure's. Suddenly determined, he rose, turned  
away, and tied the last ribbon with short motions.

"Seven for duty to the Father."

The room faded away from around him and wings ripped themselves free of his  
back. Muscles tensed and then he was in flight, heading back the way he'd come.

 


	16. Whom Most Holy Helps

Frankly, Azrael didn't know what to do with it.

He shouldered the door open, the unconscious angel cradled in his arms. He  
wondered if it was going to wake up anytime soon. But the eyes remained closed,  
and the angel was breathing slow and deep, as if peacefully asleep.

For lack of better ideas, he unceremoniously dumped the angel on his bed,  
then sat down beside it. It was pretty, like Imriel, but more effeminate. The  
Metatron said the new angel was supposed to help Azrael collect souls, but the  
Angel of Death entertained any number of doubts on the issue.

Dammit, the thing didn't even have a name. He had asked the Metatron, but the  
Voice's giggling behind an absurd paper fan had been a singularly unenlightening  
reply.

He reached out and touched the angel's golden hair, letting the strands run  
through his fingers. It felt like the silk that Yurkemi spun, smooth beneath his  
callused fingertips.

A murmur that sounded more like a purr startled him. "That feels  
good."

Azrael jerked his hand away as if burned. Cornflower blue eyes blinked at  
him, pale pink lips curved in a smile. "Are you Azrael?"

He swallowed. Its voice was pitched too low - it had to be male. "Yes,  
I'm Azrael." He fidgeted for a moment under that gaze that seemed to cut  
not so much through him, as into him. It was unnerving to be the center of  
attention, and so he seized on the first thing that came to mind. "Are you  
hungry?"

The angel thought about it. "I don't know."

Azrael frowned. "Either you are or you aren't."

The angel blinked, and then laughed. "I didn't know it worked that way.  
But you can eat even if you aren't hungry, can't you?" The angel waited  
expectantly.

Azrael's frown deepened. The angel had been created by Most Holy, by way of  
the Metatron. For the past six months, the Metatron and his twin, Sandalphon,  
had been virtually locked together at the top of the Tower. Raphael, being an  
incorrigible gossip, had relayed that the twins had been cradling a small golden  
ball, whispering to it and feeding it arching currents of energy.

Azrael took another hard look at the angel who had been dropped into his  
life. It was just altogether strange. And he had liked things just the way they  
were, doing his duty by himself.

"I suppose so," he answered finally. "Come on, I'll find us  
something to eat." He got up and the angel followed him to the kitchen. As  
he was rummaging around for a saucepan, he heard a metallic clatter behind him  
and turned around to see the angel methodically preparing to make tea.

Unnatural, he snarled internally. "So what else do you know how to  
do?" he asked, keeping his tone purposefully flat.

The angel smiled sunnily at him. "Lots of things."

"Then, what's your name?"

If possible, the angel's smile turned sweeter. "I don't have one. You're  
supposed to name me."

Azrael went back to making soup. "What would you like me to call  
you?" he tried again, biting down on frustration.

Slender hands fixed tea with graceful movements. "Whatever you decide  
on."

Azrael decided he was going to break the Metatron's fingers, at least.

After dinner, which the angel ate without so much as an uncouth slurp, Azrael  
stood and turned down the lights. "We have an assignment tomorrow morning.  
We should get some sleep."

The angel nodded and then followed him back to the bedroom. He began to the  
strip out of his clothing when he noticed the angel was staring.  
"What?" he demanded irritably, pulling off his tunic.

"You're beautiful." The angel said it as a simple statement of  
fact.

Azrael snorted and flexed his coal-black wings. "Hardly. I look like  
somebody dropped me in a tar pit."

The angel shook his head but didn't offer any more words, only untied the  
long tunic he wore, letting it flutter to the ground.

Definitely male.

"I'll go sleep on the couch," Azrael muttered, trying to remember  
where his extra set of sheets was.

"Oh?" the angel asked. "It is big enough for the both of  
us?"

Azrael stared. Was he stupid? "Of course not."

"Then we should stay here, shouldn't we?" the angel said, smiling  
sweetly.

Azrael thought about arguing. He really did. But it had been a long day, and  
all he really wanted to do was curl up in his own bed. Even if it now came  
equipped with a blonde with no concept of privacy.

   


* * *

Azrael woke to the smell of bacon frying. He rose from bed swiftly, crossing  
the room and laying his hands on the handle of his Scythe before he remembered.

_Dammit._

Sure enough, the angel was in the kitchen, merrily making breakfast.  
"Good morning," he sang sweetly. "Have a seat, I have everything  
all ready! Do you want orange juice?"

Azrael didn't know he even had orange juice. Actually, his cupboards had been  
rather bare altogether. "Where did you get all this?" he asked,  
feeling quite grouchy about the matter.

The angel pointed to a note on the table. It was written in curly cursive  
with a profusion of doodled hearts. "Fuck," Azrael groaned. "The  
Metatron came by this morning?"

The angel set a plate in front of him. "Courtesy of the Voice, yes, but  
Sandalphon brought it by. It's a little early for the Metatron to be up, don't  
you think?"

What the hell ELSE did he know? Knew this, knew that, had no clue about that,  
no concept of modesty - all in all, totally fucking weird. He ate his breakfast  
anyway and found it surprisingly good. Maybe not so surprising, he conceded a  
moment later. Anything created and taught by the twins was bound to be bizarre.

A short while later, he retreated to the bedroom to don his heavy black wool  
robes. As was seeming to become a habit, he backed right up into the angel, who  
had followed too closely. "Hey," Azrael said gruffly. "I'd better  
lend you a robe. It's going to get messy."

"That's unnecessary," the angel said, smiling.

Azrael looked him up and down. He was still dressed in the thin white tunic,  
which, frankly, didn't hide much. "Have it your way. At least put your hair  
back."

Clearly humoring him, the angel secured his masses of golden hair back into a  
braid. Azrael clenched his teeth but said nothing, since the angel was at least  
following his suggestion. And with the hair bound, Azrael could see the angel's  
face more clearly. His eyes traced the curve of the delicate jaw and the  
fragile, slender slope of the neck - and then mentally shook himself and strode  
out the door.

And surprise, surprise - the angel knew how to fly, as well. And knew how to  
use his Key. And seemed to have no fucking difficulty whatsoever locating the  
souls. Why the hell had the Metatron given him to Azrael for training, anyway?

   


* * *

The angel followed Azrael into the house. His memory that was not memory  
whispered to him, warned him of what was coming. He could feel the awful  
stillness of the air, and he felt somehow outside himself, watching Death  
himself stalk his prey.

The man's soul was a crude oily black, reeking of evil and rotting filth. _Watch_,  
a silvery voice commanded him, and so he did.

He saw it all as if were slow motion. Azrael bent the murderer back over the  
handle of his Scythe. The black-haired angel leaned close, in a chilling parody  
of a lover, and placed one hand over the man's heart. Azrael whispered things  
that the angel could not hear, but the man looked beyond terrified - and he had  
a right to be. Azrael's eyes were dark and terrible.

"For the sin of taking lives you were not meant to take," he  
intoned. "For robbing others of their loved ones, all for your own  
greed." A dark, burning light floated underneath Azrael's hand, and the  
angel stood transfixed by this powerful, frightening judge.

"In the name of Most Holy, your soul is forfeit," Azrael said in  
harsh whisper. And then.

And then.

Azrael ripped out the murderer's soul. The body fell lifeless to the floor,  
his screaming soul still in Azrael's fist.

The angel wanted to say something, wanted to tell him to stop, and then he  
looked at Azrael's eyes. The dark Angel of Death's eyes were cold, numb. Horror  
and anguish so long subverted that emptiness was better. And that, more than the  
death of the murderer, was what made the angel feel sick inside. "There's  
another way," the angel whispered, barely aware that he had.

Azrael gave him a humorless smile. "I tried to find another way. But  
this is it."

The angel turned, and his heart stopped. A little girl, her chest covered  
with blood, was gasping on the couch. Azrael moved slowly over and picked the  
girl up. "She's dying, you know. Her own father stabbed her. Her soul can't  
find its way on her own - Most Holy did not intend for this to happen. So what  
do you think you can do? If I don't kill her, she'll wander the Earth forever,  
without rest. I only know of one way to take souls one way, and you just saw  
that."

"I can take her."

The angel took the girl from Azrael's arms, and he could see how frightened  
she was - how alone. She was small and he could feel the innocence of her soul  
shining like a beacon fire. She was gasping and crying and in_ so much pain._

"Shhhh. It's okay," he whispered tenderly, his fingers moving over  
her chest to stop the pain as he had been taught. Her terrified sobbing quieted,  
and he could feel her heart slowing. Could feel her soul reaching out for him.  
It took so little effort to catch that silver lifeline and pull the desperate,  
innocent soul close to his heart.

And as he did, she gave one last breath and died.

Azrael was staring at him, his breath coming in ragged sobs. No tears flowed  
down his face. "Who are you?" he rasped. "Who taught you? I  
searched for years - for _centuries_ \- trying to find another way."

The angel smiled. "I am Most Holy's Command."

"Command?" Azrael whisper. "Why did He send you? Why keep me,  
when I'm doing it all wrong..."

"You're not," the angel told him firmly. "You're just as much  
a miracle as I. Because you figured out how to dispense His justice without  
asking." He reached up to brush a blood-soaked lock of hair back from  
Azrael's face. "He needs you."

Empty, aching eyes. Onyx spheres dark with wrenching sadness and self-  
loathing. "I'm nothing."

The angel stepped forward and pressed himself close, his tunic staining with  
blood. "You're justice. You are His will." Azrael looked confused and  
lost, blood-spattered and exhausted, and the angel smiled.

"You are the one I was made to love, because you cannot love  
yourself."

He kissed cold, unresponsive lips and then stood back.

Azrael was still staring. "I...We need to go back and deliver the  
souls," he said finally, his voice rough. He turned his back and spread his  
wings.

The angel grasped his hand. "Can't we go together?"

Azrael yanked his hand away. "You're asking for a lot. I never asked for  
any of this - not this duty, not this immortality, and certainly not you."

He Keyed back to heaven, leaving the angel standing there, innocent soul cradled  
close.

"Well, He didn't say it would be easy," he whispered to the soul.  
"But I have loved him with my first thought, and I will not forsake  
him."

   


* * *

Duchiel?

Didn't sound right.

Phakiel?

Made him sound like a trickster.

Kabniel?

That was just stupid.

Azrael snorted in disgust. He could just keep calling him "it" or

"he" or "fucking idiot". But somehow he didn't think the  
Metatron would approve.

And in all honesty, the angel wasn't an idiot of any kind. The Metatron and  
Sandalphon had taught him well, so that he fit into Azrael's life as if he had  
been there for three centuries and not three days.

However, it was an unavoidable fact that the angel's very cold feet were  
pressed up right against his formerly warm calves. Azrael had just been about to  
fall asleep when the sudden cold shock brought him back to full alertness.  
"Dammit," he swore. He turned over to face the angel. "Hey,"  
he growled.

The angel made an unhappy little questioning noise before cuddling closer.  
Azrael almost backed up before he realized that the angel didn't just have cold  
feet - he was cold all over. And while Azrael prided himself on being a stern  
individual, casual cruelty seemed unwarranted under the circumstances.

He settled the angel more comfortably against himself. After all, body  
contact was the quickest way to warm him up. Almost unconsciously, his hand  
stroked through the long, golden strands. So soft. He still didn't know what to  
call him. The angel had refused all commands, requests, and finally, grudging  
pleading to move to the guest bedroom.

But on some level, he wasn't upset that the angel had resisted.

So soft, everywhere.

   


* * *

"I don't think he likes me," the angel confessed sadly.

Ardouisur, Yurkemi, and the Metatron all heaved feminine sighs. "I'm  
sure he likes you, sweetest," Yurkemi said, giving him a one-armed hug.  
"He's just being prickly."

Ardouisur smiled over the rim of her teacup. "In other words, he's just  
being himself."

"Maybe you should try a little smooching. If cooking, housework, and  
doing your job right isn't getting you anywhere, maybe you should try a  
little..." the Metatron made a little gesture with his hands that the angel  
thought was supposed to suggest kissing.

The angel thought it over. It seemed like a reasonable plan. Except...  
"I don't know how. You never taught me that."

Ardouisur and Yurkemi giggled, and the Metatron blushed. "Well, We  
THOUGHT he would teach you that all by himself. We didn't plan on you having to  
seduce him."

"Don't scare him," Ardouisur scolded. "Nobody's seducing  
anybody. Just a few kisses, to remind Azrael that there are other positive  
aspects to a relationship."

"I still don't know how," the angel reminded them.

The other three exchanged glances.

"Imriel would have my head if he heard," Ardouisur said flatly.

Yurkemi giggled nervously. "Well, he's going to kiss a MAN. So he might  
as well get used to it."

The Metatron looked affronted. "Well, it's not like I have any great  
experience in the matter. I haven't even..." he trailed off and blushed,  
suddenly finding his knees quite interesting.

The women nudged him. "Go on, you can teach him how to kiss. Or should  
we call your brother?" Ardouisur asked slyly.

The Metatron squeaked in protest. "Sandy thinks mouths and tongues are  
unsanitary - he'd wash his mouth out with soap before and after!" He looked  
at them, and finding no sympathy and no recourse, sat down next to the angel.

The Metatron pulled on the angel's sleeve. "C'mon, you have to turn  
toward me."

The angel complied, and the Metatron leaned close. "Put your arms around  
me." The Metatron was warm and his shirt was made out of a silky material.  
The angel made a mental note to ask Yurkemi later if he could have a shirt like  
that. "Okay," the Voice said in a brisk tone, "the important  
thing is to angle your head so you don't bump noses. And you're supposed to  
close your eyes."

The angel let a tiny frown pull his lips downward. "How can I not bump  
noses if my eyes are closed?"

The Metatron looked flustered. "Well, I guess you touch lips first and  
then close your eyes. Here, let's try."

The angel leaned forward and their lips met. It was most startling. The  
Metatron's lips were soft and sort of nicely textured. He belatedly remembered  
to close his eyes. Then the Metatron pulled away. "So that's how you do  
it?"

Ardouisur coughed, and it sounded rather oddly like the word  
"tongue."

The Metatron glared at her. "Alright, alright, I'm getting to it."  
He sighed again. "After a little bit of kissing like that, you can change  
it a little."

"How?" the angel inquired politely.

The Metatron squirmed. "Well, you sort of open your mouth and um...touch  
tongues with the other person."

"Is that nice?" the angel asked.

Ardouisur and Yurkemi giggled. "It's very nice when you love the other  
person," Ardouisur said gently.

The angel smiled brightly. "I love Azrael more than anyone."

The other three exchanged glances. "Now there's an unusual  
sentence," Yurkemi muttered. The angel wasn't quite sure he understood. But  
he had to practice the tongue- touching so he could try it on Azrael later.

He put his arms around the Metatron and leaned in again, touching lips like  
before. And then, quite suddenly, the Metatron's lips opened underneath his, and  
it was nice, as promised. Though Ardouisur said it was different when you loved  
the person, so perhaps it would be even better with Azrael.

"Are you watching this?" he heard Ardouisur murmur to Yurkemi.

He sneaked a quick peek. Yurkemi was fanning herself. "You bet,"

she said emphatically.

   


* * *

Azrael glared at the door, as if the door were somehow responsible for his  
dislike of this visit, and for the need to do so. He rapped firmly on the door,  
which was answered moments later by Belial.

Belial's lip twisted in barely disguised hatred. "What are you doing  
here?" he demanded.

Azrael nodded his head in the direction of Raphael's study. "I need to  
see him." He started to push his way past, but Belial hissed caught a  
handful of Azrael's tunic.

Fuck it all. Azrael looked at Belial's grip on his clothing with the disdain  
that he reserved for small insects and the damned. "Let go, pretty  
boy," he warned softly.

"Or what? You'll rip off _both_ of my wings?" Belial taunted.

Azrael could feel his temper begin to slide. "Look, I fucking well said  
I was sorry. I owe him, not you - and I can't make this right if you won't let  
me see him."

"Belial," a voice called softly. Belial froze, his form  
straightening with what could only be frustrated anger.

Raphael stood in the doorway to his study. His face held a warm smile that  
made Azrael flinch. _I don't deserve your forgiveness - your kindness is  
torture enough._

Belial's eyes blazed with fury. "If you're going to allow _this_ in  
here, I'm leaving."

Raphael covered his eyes with one hand. "Belial," he sighed.

But Raphael's lover paid him no heed and stormed out the door. Azrael watched  
him go, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable. "Raphael, look, call him  
back - I'll leave."

Raphael walked toward the door, not limping so much as swaying - and shut the  
door firmly. "I'm not going to turn you away. I understand why Belial is  
upset - he thinks me foolish and too trusting. What do you think?"

Azrael's eyes fixed on the empty space where Raphael's wing should have been,  
but said nothing.

Raphael sighed sadly. "He'll come back later. In the meantime, we can  
talk." He gestured toward the study. "Go on, I'll bring in the tea  
tray."

Azrael did not go, but watched Raphael make his way to the kitchen. The  
uneven stagger pained him more than he really wanted to think about. Almost  
without consciously deciding to do so, he strode forward and snatched up the  
tray.

Raphael's amethyst eyes sparkled with humor. "As bad as Belial,  
honestly. Just because I walk like a drunkard doesn't mean I'm an invalid."

Azrael opened his mouth to retort, but too many things hit him at once -  
drunkard - invalid - shame - guilt. "I'm sorry," he muttered again,  
helplessly, hopelessly.

"Would it help if I broke your nose?" Raphael offered  
conversationally as they sat down in the study.

It was Azrael's turn to blink. "What?" It was almost as bad as  
talking to his uninvited housemate.

"This guilt complex you've got going. I told you, I forgive you. What  
will it take to get that through your head?"

Azrael pushed his hair out of his face, pulling hard on the strands as he did  
so. "I don't know. But, you said I could come talk to you. If I needed  
to."

Raphael's amethyst gaze was mesmerizing. "Why do you need to?"

Azrael's next breath was almost a sob. "I don't understand why Most Holy  
just doesn't replace me and get it over with."

"Hey," Raphael said, his tone concerned. "That's not what the  
angel is for - have you named him yet, by the way?"

"No, I haven't named him," Azrael said dismissively. "And what  
do you mean?"

Raphael pushed a teacup into his hand. "Why do you think it has to be  
one way or the other? Why can't both of your methods of soul collection be  
right?"

Azrael stared at him, his mind turning the idea over. "Because," he  
sputtered. "He...he doesn't hurt them - he doesn't hurt anyone! Why would  
Most Holy want to keep me when He could have that?"

Raphael arched an eyebrow. "Because some people deserve punishment and  
others don't. Let it go, Az - Most Holy made you the way you are for a  
reason."

Azrael gripped the teacup hard enough that his knuckles turned white.  
"I'm out of control - you should know that better than anyone."

"You're so full of shit. You were drunk out of your skull and you lost  
it - I'm not saying it was right, Az, but it's done and it's over with. You  
know, the angel is supposed to lessen your agitation, not exacerbate it."

Azrael looked up. "What?"

"He was made _for_ you - to be your partner, your balance. Why  
don't you let him do what he's supposed to do, so you can get on with what you  
need to do?"

"I don't need a-"

Raphael cut him off. "A lover? I disagree. I think you need to work off  
some stress is a nonviolent way."

Azrael crossed his arms. "You sound like Uriel," he complained.

"Really? How would you know? And here I thought you were a virgin,"  
Raphael chortled.

"Don't confuse me with that fucking waste of space Voice," Azrael  
mock-growled.

They grinned at each other, and then the teasing insults began in earnest, as  
if the unfortunate incident in the bar had never happened at all.

   


* * *

The angel watched Azrael.

Just watched. The dark haired Angel of Death was outside, his way lit only by  
stars on the cloudless night.

Azrael was dancing.

Maybe not dancing in a conventional sense. But what else could one call this?  
Azrael had his Scythe out, and he swung it in graceful, deadly arcs. His feet  
moved in light, sure steps, and the blade whistled as it sliced through the air.

Azrael was most certainly beautiful, despite all his protestations otherwise.  
His face was calm, his coal-black tresses fanning out behind him as he spun. No  
other angel in Heaven has his trademark black wings. Azrael was different, but  
terribly beautiful.

The angel eased the porch door open and walked barefoot out into the field.  
At his approach, Azrael slowed to a stop and rested his Scythe upright. "I  
thought you were asleep," Azrael said, his voice low.

The angel shook his head and stepped forward. The Scythe was taller than he,  
and he reached up to touch the handle where Azrael's hand gripped it. Azrael's  
fingers were cool and callused underneath his touch. "You're  
beautiful," the angel breathed.

Azrael looked puzzled. "No. But you are."

The angel bit down a wave of frustration, wishing he could make Azrael  
understand. So he stood on his tiptoes instead and pressed his lips to Azrael's,  
in an effort to make him see that he was beautiful, that he was loved.

Azrael responded hesitantly, then gently pushed him away, a flash of  
something that looked very much like fear crossing his face.

The angel pressed his fingers to his lips, feeling bereft.

   


* * *

Azrael was absolutely pissed. He threw his bloodied robe into the wash basin,  
where it landed with a satisfying _smack_. He desperately wanted something  
to pound since he couldn't touch that damn fool_ idiot_.

He stepped into the shower and washed himself with rough, angry movements.  
The pounding of the hot water didn't relax him any, and in fact, the time to  
simmer somehow made it worse.

So it was that he stomped out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped  
precariously about his waist and began yelling at the same decibel level that he  
had been using before entering the bathroom. "Don't EVER interfere with my  
assignment again," he yelled. The angel was sitting at the table where he  
had left him, staring hard at knotted hands in his lap.

"I was just trying to..." the angel said softly.

"They don't deserve mercy. They don't deserve an easy death. They don't  
deserve any of your fucking kindness, and if you EVER do that again, you'll be  
looking for somewhere else to live," Azrael said, breathing hard with fury.

The angel stood up and looked him in the eye. "You don't even know what  
you're threatening me with," he said, his voice firm. "I was just  
trying to do my job."

Azrael let loose a vicious curse. "Look, you're very fucking useful -  
but you do what _I_ say, and you follow _my_ orders."

And damned if the angel didn't start to look slightly pissed. "Well,  
thank Most Holy you finally admitted that, at least," he snapped, his eyes  
flashing. "I'm your partner, Azrael, not your servant - would you mind  
getting that one straight?"

Azrael clenched his teeth, still breathing heavily.

And while he was trying to think of a suitable retort, the angel got up in  
his face. "You won't even _name_ me - why is that, Azrael? Afraid  
you'll have to keep me? Afraid you'll have to learn to think about someone other  
than yourself?"

Azrael was shaking in anger, but the angel carried on, maybe heedless - or  
maybe really ballsy. "Afraid you'll have to fuck me?" the angel asked  
in a dangerous whisper, the crude, unexpected word shocking Azrael to something  
resembling rationality.

"I have wanted nothing more since the Voice dropped you in my  
arms," Azrael growled, pulling the angel into his arms.

"Then we agree on something," the angel hissed, and the next  
moment, they were caught up in a bruising, painful kiss. Azrael was dimly aware  
that he was going to leave bruises on the angel's fair skin if he kept gripping  
the blonde so tightly.

The angel bit Azrael's lip, and the coppery taste of blood flooded Azrael's  
senses as he gasped.

"You don't understand _anything_," the angel muttered angrily,  
pulling roughly at his own clothing and throwing Azrael's towel aside before  
pushing them both into the bedroom.

Azrael snarled and pushed the angel down onto the bed. "Why the fuck do  
you have to be here? Why won't everyone leave me the hell alone?"

The angel's nails raked down his back, and Azrael shuddered despite himself,  
and then winced when the angel tugged his head down via a firm grip on his hair.  
"Why don't you quit feeling sorry for yourself and ask Him?" Azrael  
shut him up with another brutal kiss and pinned the angel beneath him, his mouth  
trailing down that admired neck, marring the skin as he went with nipping  
kisses. And damned if the angel wasn't writhing against him, grinding their  
erections together. Their hands were everywhere, and anger blurred with desire.

Azrael was kneeling between the angel's thighs before he knew it, and then he  
stopped himself.

The angel leaned up on his elbows, and his voice held a mocking edge.  
"He made me for you - aren't you going to use me?"

Azrael glared at him, and made to move away.

The angel caught his wrist, and enunciated, "Coward."

And if there was one thing that Azrael could not stand, it was that too  
truthful accusation. It coursed through him like ice, clearing away the fog of  
anger and leaving only starved desire in its place "Well, excuse me for  
giving a damn," he muttered, and retrieved a bottle of oil from the bedside  
table.

When Azrael's slick fingers touched the angel to prepare him, the fight  
seemed to desert the blonde immediately, leaving a pliant, gasping angel in  
Azrael's arms. He traced a droplet of sweat from the angel's collarbone with his  
tongue, even as he removed his fingers and slid his aching erection home.

The angel whimpered and Azrael groaned, and after that it was burning heat  
and friction, sweat and rhythm, and the angel moaning beneath him and finally  
crying out as his release spilled out between them. A few more hard thrusts, and  
the angel whispered endearments as Azrael shuddered and emptied himself inside  
the only one who had ever offered to love him just as he was.

"I love you," the angel said softly, afterward.

Azrael held him close and pressed a tender kiss to his temple.

"Azrael?"

He pulled back a little to look in the angel's eyes. "Yeah?"

"Do you think we could do that again? Maybe without the fight?"

The angel's tone was completely innocent, but Azrael had his suspicions now.  
And maybe it was just the late hour and the complete relaxation, but he began to  
laugh helplessly. "Yeah, I think we could manage that."

The angel traced his flank. "Is now too soon?"

   


* * *

The angel hung the wet sheet over the clothesline with Azrael's help. They  
methodically worked their way down, hanging the laundry out to dry and securing  
it with clothespins. It now was almost two months since Azrael had brought him  
home. They had achieved a sort of rhythm in their duties and at home, and the  
progress they had made brought a smile to the angel's lips.

"I've been thinking," Azrael said, his voice gruff.

"Imagine that," the angel murmured, fiddling with a stubborn  
clothespin. It earned him a glare, but it was a glare that contained a rather  
startling amount of affection.

"You said...you said once that you were Most Holy's Command. Command to  
do what?"

The angel smiled sunnily at him, the wind catching his hair and blowing it  
every which way. "To love you."

Azrael looked away. "I've decided. What to name you."

The angel drew a quick breath and just stared.

"You know all our names are in Fiat, right?"

The angel quirked an amused eyebrow. "You think the twins let me go  
without teaching me about Angelic Script?"

Azrael looked defensive. "Well, you're the one who didn't see a problem  
with washing laundry in the nude. Outdoors."

The angel rolled his eyes. "You were saying?"

Azrael swallowed. "Well, I thought that, since you are, that your name  
should be -

"Suriel."

Suriel flung his arms around Azrael's neck. "I love you!" he sang  
in delight. "I love you so very much!" He sprinkled Azrael's face with  
kisses. "I love you!"

Azrael gave him a very tiny smile that he drank in with enthusiasm,  
determined to memorize so he could see it forever. "What does your name  
mean?" Suriel asked, though he already knew the answer better than his own.

Azrael raised his eyebrows in surprise. "It means, 'Whom Most Holy  
helps.'"

Suriel searched his face. "Has He?"

Azrael's little smile widened a fraction, and his dark eyes reflected the  
deep emotion singing in Suriel's heart.

"He has, indeed."

 


	17. Metagenesis

In the beginning, God created heaven and earth, and the earth was then welter  
and waste and darkness over the deep and God's breath hovered over the waters.  
And God's breath became an angel, the first of its kind. And God said, "Let  
there be light." And there was light. And God asked the first angel if it  
was good. And he said it was. And God divided light from the darkness and called  
the light day and the darkness he called night. And it was evening and morning,  
first day. And God created more angels, and their number was seven after the  
first: Belial and Raphael and Yurkemi and Gabriel, twins, and Sandalphon and  
Adrigon, twins, and Azrael, and the first angel, first called Ruah then named  
Lucifer, for this name means light-bringer.

   


* * *

When the angels were first made, they were very similar. Adrigon and  
Sandalphon stayed together, Gabriel and Yurkemi stayed together, Raphael and  
Belial stayed together, and both Lucifer and Azrael lived alone. It took some  
time for them to discover their personalities and to change from incarnations of  
praise to real people.

They changed, however, and soon the chaos rang with laughter and discussion  
as well as song.

Adrigon would cling fondly to his brother, quiet behind the stronger, firmer  
angel, but his bright eyes would dance, not missing much.

   


* * *

Adrigon decided he liked Raphael. Raphael was so nice, and would sing at him.  
Azrael was a bit spooky, but nice in his own gruff, hurting way. Adrigon liked  
Yurkemi too -- she was so sweet and sweet! He wasn't too fond of Belial or  
Gabriel though. Belial always glared and acted all possessive of Raphael and  
that was scary, right? Nobody should possess another. And Gabriel wasn't  
possessive, but he was just SO tied up in Yurkemi that he didn't want to talk to  
anyone else. So! Adrigon would just ignore him back!

And he loved his brother, of course! Sandalphon was protective and loving and  
silent and just so-so special. Sandy and he would be together forever!

And then there was Lucifer. Lucifer was just so beautiful and stunningly  
brilliant, but a bit scary. Sometimes it seemed like he didn't need anybody,  
like everyone else needed somebody. Even Azrael NEEDED somebody, even if he  
didn't have anyone.

Adrigon knew that it might come from being the first, Most Holy's picked  
first angel. But still, it wasn't very nice.

   


* * *

And God said, "Let there be a vault in the midst of the waters and let  
it divide water from water." And God made the vault and it divided the  
water beneath the vault from the water above the vault and so it was. And God  
called the Vault Heaven, and it was evening and morning, second day.

   


* * *

The angels moved into Heaven as soon as it was made. There were buildings  
already there. The twins moved in together. Raphael and Belial moved in  
together. Azrael found a building connected to Raphael and Belial's. Lucifer  
lived alone.

   


* * *

Adrigon liked to walk in the City, as the others called the nest of arranged  
buildings. Most Holy had plans for the City, he was sure. In the distance, there  
was a tower, rising into the sky. Adrigon would wonder what it was for, watching  
the heights thoughtfully.

   


* * *

And God said, "Let the waters under Heaven be gathered in one place so  
that the dry land will appear," and so it was. And God called the dry land  
Earth and the gathering of waters he called Seas, and God asked His first angel  
if it was good. And he replied that it was. And God said, "Let the Earth  
grow grass, plants yielding seed of each kind and trees bearing fruit that has  
its seed within it." And so it was. And God asked His first angel if it was  
good. And he replied that it was.

   


* * *

A collective breath was held when Earth came into being, then a cheer and a  
celebration. Even Lucifer joined the party, laughing and drinking and hugging  
with the rest of them, eyes bright.

   


* * *

Adrigon slipped away from the party and the congratulations, cheeks hot,  
needing some air. He stared up at the Earth, smiling. He could nearly smell the  
plant life, out there.

He glanced over as Lucifer also came out, leaned against the wall beside him.  
"Hi," Adrigon said, unsure.

"It's beautiful," Lucifer breathed, staring at the Earth.  
"It's so beautiful."

Adrigon studied the profile, saw the awe and wonder, and smiled.  
"Yeah," he said, and heard his voice come out quiet and shy.

Lucifer smiled, then leaned over and brushed his lips over Adrigon's.  
"Congratulations," he murmured, and headed back inside.

Adrigon touched his tingling lips, blushing. Lucifer wasn't that bad, really.

   


* * *

And God said, "Let there be lights in Heaven to divide the night from  
day and light up the Earth." And so it was, and God asked His first angel  
if it was good. And he replied that it was. And it was evening and morning,  
fourth day. And God said, "Let waters swarm with living creatures and fowl  
fly over the Earth." And so it was, and God asked His first angel if it was  
good. And he replied that it was. And God blessed them. And it was evening and  
morning, fifth day.

   


* * *

It took the angels a while to catch on to birds and fish. They were living.  
It was stunning. It was beautiful.

   


* * *

Adrigon chased birds for a while on Earth, laughing and delighted, two winged  
creatures enjoying the wind.

He was beautiful. His long hair had been pulled back in a ponytail and he  
started to wear coloured robes based on bird plumage. Sometimes it seemed that  
he became more beautiful the more was created.

   


* * *

And God said, "Let the Earth bring forth living creatures of each kind,  
cattle and crawling things and wild beasts of each kind. And so it was. And God  
asked His first angel if it was good. And he replied that it was.

   


* * *

As the days passed, the angels calmed down, moved about their own lives and  
developing routines, started to explore the complexities of their personalities.

   


* * *

And, no longer able to resist the lure, Adrigon entered the palatial complex  
where Lucifer lived, sneaking around to find the tower entrance, and began  
climbing steps. He didn't fly, because he felt the journey deserved more.

   


* * *

And God said, "Let us make a human." And God created the human in  
His image, in the image of God He created the human, male and female he created  
the human. And God asked his first angel if it was good. And he was silent.

   


* * *

Contrary to popular belief, angels do have free will.

   


* * *

And Adrigon's eyes widened, because he could see all of Heaven, see all of  
Earth, and the wind was wailing around him.

And then a voice spoke, for his ears alone.

He would be His voice.

"Why, Most Holy?" Adrigon asked, shy, nervous, awed. "Why  
me?"

And he knew.

Because he'd been watching. Because he had suspicion of the danger to come.  
Because he could sympathize with both sides. Because his mind might survive.

Adrigon looked out over Heaven and Earth and closed gray eyes.  
"Yes," he said, crying.

/enfolded in great wings like coming home like coming home and BANG! bubble  
like a million places and he was drowning and drowning in a sea of Voice see of  
Voice speaking knowing too much too much chaos and he was screaming he was  
falling and burning from the tower the tower was burning but it wasn't it wasn't  
his mind was on fire his body was burning his throat was it too noisy noisy  
noisy and/

The Metatron opened silver eyes, old name falling away like a snake shedding  
its skin and he wiped tears. Not certain, not certain. Most Holy didn't know  
everything that would happen, but he knew everything that /might/ happen.

He trembled, unable to rise from his knees, afraid to head away, downstairs,  
perhaps to meet Lucifer, see the possibilities spinning away like endless  
rainbow tops, little dreidels of possibility like screaming whirling dervishes  
like--

/Here. Is this better?/

The sense of Most Holy backed off enough so that he could feel the presence  
without drowning in it and he smiled. "Thank you," he whispered.

/Any time./

The Metatron rose, slipped, and clung to the wall for a moment. He had to go.  
To tell everyone that new angels would be made from the souls of certain humans.  
He had to tell this. To risk it. To recognize discontent in someone's eyes and  
pretend not too because of free will, because it wasn't his choice. He had to  
go.

He was worried that he couldn't manage the stairs. And... he had this insane  
urge...

/Go for it. You know you want to./

The Metatron smiled, then grinned, and flung himself out the window,  
spreading his wings to catch the updraft he knew was coming.

   


* * *

And God blessed the human.

 


	18. Overdue

Uriel nudged Cassiel in the side, and put his lips close to Cassiel's ear.  
"Dare you."

Cassiel struggled to keep a grip on the books he held clasped in his arms.  
"No."

Uriel heaved a much put-upon sigh and dragged Cassiel behind a bookcase.  
"Come on, you have similar interests. You both like books. What's not to  
like?"

"That," Cassiel said, quite serenely, "is the Metatron's twin.  
I am not about to go sit in his lap just because you want incriminating  
pictures."

Uriel managed a credible imitation of being utterly appalled. "Cass,  
would I do something like that? I just think it's good for you to broaden your  
horizons once in awhile."

Cassiel raised an inquiring eyebrow. "Does that mean you no longer  
consider yourself capable? How quickly domesticity sinks in." He received  
another elbow in the gut for his trouble.

"Just look at him," Uriel hissed.

Cassiel gamely looked at Sandalphon through the spaces in the bookshelf. It  
was difficult to tell at first glance that he and the Metatron were twins.  
Sandalphon wore loose robes of a muted blue-grey, and his hair was conveniently  
bound away from his face and secured at the nape of his neck. His eyes were  
actually an interesting shade of gold, but overall, he just looked like an  
ordinary sort of fellow who was trying to get some research done. Cassiel could  
sympathize.

And Uriel was a pain in the ass when he was up to no good, as Cassiel knew  
from long experience. Uriel would pester and threaten and tease and pester and  
whine and pester and goad and mock and pester... The memory was already giving  
Cassiel the twinges of a headache.

"Oh, bother," he said finally, and thrust his books into Uriel's  
arms.

Cassiel walked up to Sandalphon's table and discretely cleared his throat.  
Sandalphon looked up briefly, mild surprise registering on his face.  
"Look," Cassiel said quietly. "You know Uriel, don't you?"

Sandalphon pursed his lips in annoyance. "Mischievous fellow, as I  
recall."

Cassiel nodded. "So you'll understand that this is for our own  
good."

Then he promptly straddled the grey-haired angel's lap and laid as good a  
kiss on him as he'd ever given. Sandalphon was frozen in shock, but managed to  
respond towards the end. Cassiel carefully removed himself and straightened  
Sandalphon's robes a bit, before settling in the chair next to him.

"Uriel," he called quietly. "Bring my books, will you?"

Uriel came out from behind the bookshelf, eyes wide. He handed the books to  
Cassiel. _I didn't think you'd actually do it_, he whispered into Cassiel's  
mind.

_Maybe we'll do it if you leave the room._

_Cass!_ Uriel said indignantly. _Honestly. You thoroughly seduce a boy  
and then he starts jumping boring people. What's this place coming to?_ He  
ranted as he shut the library door.

"He thinks you're boring," Cassiel said quietly to Sandalphon,  
opening to the index of his first book.

"I think he's a pain in the ass," Sandalphon retorted tartly.  
"Ah, you have that book on the Visgoths. Could I borrow it a moment?"

Cassiel wordlessly handed it over.

"Are we really boring?" Sandalphon mused, long moments later.

Cassiel didn't bat an eye. "Depends. How do you feel about library  
sex?"

Sandalphon's gaze met his. "So long as you don't damage the books."

A small smile crossed Cassiel's lips. "My feelings exactly," he  
mumured, and began to disrobe.

 


	19. Check and Mate

Belial was always a little wary of chess. Not because of the game itself, of  
course. It was where it had _come_ from. As far as he could tell, it wasn't  
_from_ anywhere. But the Metatron had showed up enthusing about this brand  
new game and wasn't it fun and weren't humans just _precious_. It was a  
miracle in itself that the Metatron had been able to concentrate long enough to  
teach anyone the game.

But he wasn't comfortable playing a game that presumably didn't exist yet.  
He'd told Raphael as much before, but Raphael had just smiled and said that  
linear time was just an invention to make sure one got to lunch on time. Sure,  
Raphael _could_ smile about such a thing. HE wasn't losing.

Belial stared at the chess board. "How does the little horse move  
again?" he asked.

After concentrating on the jumbled explanation the Metatron had given,  
Raphael had managed a somewhat more coherent explanation to Belial, which  
primarily consisted of "The pawns go forward, the horses go funny, the  
priests go angular, the towers scuttle around sideways, and the queen goes _everywhere_.  
You're trying to take the king."

"What if I don't want to 'take' the king?" Belial had asked,  
leering. "What if I want to 'take' the queen?"

Raphael had laughed that throaty amused laugh of his. "Then YOU can  
sleep on the floor."

"Check," Raphael said. Belial snapped back to the present.

"Uh." He frowned. "What does that mean?"

"It means your king had better run to keep his ass out of my lascivious  
clutches."

A few moves later, it was all over with a triumphant "Checkmate!"

Belial put his head down on the table and groaned. "I suppose this means  
you're top tonight."

"Like I said, baby, lascivious clutches." Raphael was grinning  
broadly and, loss smarting or not, Belial found that smile infectious.

He managed a look of long-suffering, however. "I suppose I have no  
choice."

Raphael looked hurt, for some reason. "I'm hardly going to _force_..."

"Come here," Belial said, tugging him close, and Raphael's lips  
moved against his after a moment of surprise.  


* * *

  
Raphael was always gentle in bed. The Medicus. He probably couldn't be rough if  
his life depended on it.

Sometimes, Belial wanted to scream _Hurt me! Faster, harder, harder! Crush  
me pin me until I bleed until I suffer and hurt! Hurt me hurt me hurt me more._

He loved it when Raphael would make love to him. To be truthful, he preferred  
to be top, but despite that, he loved it when Raphael would make love to him.  
The sexy half murmurs Raphael would pant into his ear, fingers that couldn't  
decide where they wanted to be.

_Harder, damn it, please, hurt me, hurt me, make me suffer_

He rested his forehead on the pillow, muffling his moan in the soft feathers,  
feeling Raphael's sweat drip onto him. He was going crazy, could feel his sanity  
spin away like coiffured ladies on a dance floor, spinning, spinning, going  
crazy from slow movements and from scent drifting around him.

_Break me, please, break--_

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, and found himself crying into  
the pillow, shuddering, so close to release that he could almost taste it in his  
throat. For a moment, he was a sore wound, open, fragile, and perhaps in that  
moment he could break, could fly up or tumble down to crash, broken, to the  
bottom of some great crevice, all depending on one right word or one wrong word.

"I love you," Raphael murmured, placing a kiss on Belial's  
shoulder.

Belial's eyes flew open, fragile, flawed emerald green, and he came, choking  
on whatever words he'd been planning to say.  


* * *

  
They lay together, in the thick smell of musk, and soon enough this safety would  
crack and they'd have to go clean up, so they lay together now, in the moments  
of peace before activity would have to begin.

Raphael looked so peaceful, so sweet, that Belial decided to tell him his  
decision tomorrow, now was too special to waste. He knew Raphael would  
understand, go along with it, there was no other option, but even knowing, life  
seemed so short right now, and he tugged the other angel closer, saw sleepy  
amethyst eyes open, tranquil.

"Be mine forever," Belial whispered to him, into Raphael's lips,  
holding close and petting like a small child, stroking Raphael's hair with  
loving softness. "You'll always be mine, right?"

"Of course," Raphael murmured.

"I love you."

Raphael smiled. "I love you too." The amethyst eyes grew wicked for  
a moment. "We _must_ play chess again tomorrow."

Distaste. "It's just a silly human game, Raphael."

"I rather like it," Raphael said, startled.

Belial relented. "I'd play it to be with _you_, but..."

Raphael sat up, stretched. "We'll see, I suppose. Let's get ourselves  
cleaned up."

That dusky bare back retreated, feathered wings sweeping out behind him, to  
get a wet cloth, and Belial nodded, turning over to breathe in the scent of  
musk.  


* * *

  
Elsewhere, a beautiful golden-haired angel moved a chess piece. No opponent sat  
across from him.

All opponents sat across from him.

"Check," he told the empty room, and smiled. In a few moves, the  
game was his.


	20. Shieldmate

The Metatron sat on the windowsill of one great arched opening in the Tower.  
The marble was cool under his bare feet, and the wind ruffled the silk of his  
trousers.

There were no birds up here. Occasionally, he felt a pang of regret and  
wistful memory for his ages-ago flight with the brightly plumed avians of Earth.  
Sometimes he imagined them perched on the sill, green and yellow and ruby  
colored feathers, and dredged the sweet songs from his memory. Sometimes, if he  
asked, Most Holy would give him a clearer memory of what such and such a thing  
was like.

It was terrible to have to ask, though.

He traced the stone with one finger, feeling the immutable smoothness. He was  
older than the Tower itself, a fact which sometimes escaped notice. He and the  
Tower hadn't really been there forever. Just him.

Uriel had left this morning. Not a remarkable event, not in the slightest.  
But what had been unusual was the note on the pillow, a hastily scribbled,  
succinct missive. 'Going to Earth. U.' No reason, no agenda, no nothing. At  
least, the Metatron reflected, Uriel had given him notice, as opposed to taking  
off without any word at all. Slight progress, that.

After reading the note, he had flopped back down onto his pillows with a huge  
sigh. And then he was a little surprised by the feeling that simmered inside.  
There was loneliness, yes, all-consuming, ever-present loneliness. Standard fear  
that Uriel wouldn't come back this time. Normal, mild irritation at the brevity  
of the note. But this feeling welled up from where it was safely buried, and  
suddenly he had been hardly able to breathe.

He was bitterly jealous.

Because they could leave. Everyone else could leave. They could go on a  
Renaissance like Raphael and many others had done before him, living among  
humans as a human. They could wander about Earth, intangible, going where they  
wished and doing as they wished. They could walk among humans with none of the  
mortals being any the wiser, taking in the delights of Most Holy's creation  
undisturbed.

But the Voice had to remain. Unchanging, untouching. He had turned over into  
his pillow, the silent tears soaking the fabric beneath.

He was so lonely.

Abruptly he slid off the windowsill and crossed the room to his desk. He  
picked up the phone and punched the speed-dial for the Administrator. Two rings,  
exactly. Then he heard a curt, "Gabriel."

The Metatron twirled a finger in his hair for a moment, trying to decided how  
to broach the subject. "Is everything okay?"

An impatient huff. "Of course everything's okay. Did you just call me to  
ask questions you already know the answers to?"

The Voice narrowed his eyes and ignored the Administrator's last statement.  
"If everything's okay, then you won't mind me leaving the Tower for  
awhile," he cooed into the phone, certain he could just _hear_

Gabriel's fists clenching if he listened hard.

"Shopping on company time again, Metatron?" Gabriel asked, his tone  
more than a bit snippy.

The Metatron smiled slowly, an action that would have made the Administrator  
pale were he to have seen it. "Not at all. I'm just going for a bit of a  
walk. On Earth."

Gabriel swore viciously. "You are NOT," he spat. "Don't tell  
me you have a Proclamation, or I'll personally march up those stairs and turn  
you over my knee."

"Kinky," the Metatron purred. "Didn't know you had it in you,  
Gabby darling. But no. I'm going for my own personal amusement."

"Amuse yourself here, Metatron. There's no need for you to go to Earth.  
Why the hell do you want to go all of a sudden? You haven't been there in almost  
\- " a quick pause, "fifty centuries."

The Metatron felt his patience slipping out of his hands like wet satin.  
"Don't you think that's a little long, _dearest_?"

A pause on the other end.

The Metatron could feel something tightening inside, like a clamp on an old  
wound. "And don't you think that's a little hypocritical, uncle? Or is  
that, father?" He could hear Gabriel's sharp intake of breath, and pressed  
his advantage. "You said it yourself. Everything's fine. I've got a rather  
terminal case of cabin fever, and if I don't get out, NOW, I will not be  
responsible for the condition of the Tower."

A longer silence. Then, a slow exhale. "Take your cell phone. Stay  
intangible. And be back soon, understand? I don't like this, Metatron. I don't  
like it at all. But..."

"But?" the Voice prompted softly.

"You're right. Fifty centuries is a long time," Gabriel said, his  
tone both grudging and understanding. "Don't get into any trouble, and for  
Most Holy's sake, don't talk to any of the humans."

The Metatron resented being talked to as if he were a child on his first day  
of school. "And why not?" he asked, annoyed.

Gabriel's tone was insufferably smug. "They'd inevitably conclude that  
the Voice of God is a flaming queen."

He seethed, on the verge of a wordless screech. "Then it would do  
wonders for homosexual rights, now wouldn't it?!" He slammed down the  
receiver.

Flaming queen, indeed. The Metatron could be discreet.

Maybe.

   


* * *

"No, no, no. You twit. It's near the end of winter in Bath. It's going  
to be cold and damp and you'll be miserable. Why you want to go there anyway  
escapes me." Sandalphon dug through one of the Metatron's armoires and  
emerged with a pair of trousers. "You can't go wearing silk. You need  
something _practical_."

The Metatron stared in horror. Surely not! "Wool, Sandy?" he whined  
pathetically. "It's all...scratchy."

His twin rolled his eyes. "It's warm, and that's what matters."

"It's ugly," the Metatron objected. "I don't look good in  
brown."

Sandalphon sniffed disdainfully. "Who will see you, anyway? Cassiel? The  
boy's so wrapped up in his research that he'll hardly spare a glance for  
anything else, I can assure you."

The Metatron picked at his tunic, his eyes downcast. "I'm sort of hoping  
to run into someone while I'm there."

When he looked up again, he could see that Sandalphon, his eyes shrewd, had  
already divined the truth. His twin turned back to another armoire. "Let's  
see if we can't find something slightly more attractive. Warm, though. And you  
need good, comfortable boots if you're going to be tramping about an  
archaeological dig." A pair of black leather boots sailed out over  
Sandalphon's shoulder and hit the floor with a _thunk_. "Those will  
do."

The Metatron picked them up, running his fingers over the supple leather, and  
then sat back down and let his twin take care of him. Sandalphon was very good  
at that. After all, he'd been practicing since...well, forever.

   


* * *

He released his Key and the first thing that hit him was the cold.

It was clear, crisp sort of cold, and he drew in lungfuls that almost burned  
with the intense sensation. After a few moments, he centered himself and looked  
forward. It always amazed him when the other angels told him about the things  
that humans built. So imaginative! And the Metatron could definitely appreciate  
any structure that had once been a wonderful bath. Even though it looked a  
little lonely now and uncared for, compared to the modern structures that  
surrounded it.

And so he followed the tourists inside off the terrace, and his eyes adjusted  
to the dim lighting. They had entered the changing room when the Metatron  
noticed the top arches of wings in the trenches below.

He peered down and recognized the Angel of Tears, dressed in drab clothing  
and intent on some section of the wall. "Yoohoo," the Metatron called.

Cassiel's head snapped up and his eyes widened. "My Lord Metatron?"

The awe was stifling. "The same!" the Metatron caroled cheerfully.  
He held up a picnic basket. "Have you eaten yet?"

Cassiel's brow furrowed, and the Metatron could see that the poor boy was  
trying to remember when he'd last eaten. "If you can't remember, it's been  
too long," the Metatron told him, speaking sweetly so as to soften the  
admonishment.

The boy looked down at his dusty and dirty clothing, his lips pursing in  
apparent dissatisfaction. "I'm scarcely in a condition to take tea with  
you, my Lord Metatron."

The Voice smiled again. "I'm wearing Sandy's clothes, you know. It  
amounts to the same thing. So why don't we go wash up a bit and then see what  
Ardouisur packed for us?"

Cassiel's lips curved with a shy, subdued smile. "Alright."

   


* * *

"Old habits die hard, I suppose," Cassiel said in his customary  
near-whisper. "When we were in school, his hair was still in braids."

The Metatron racked his brain for an image of Uriel's forelocks done in  
warrior braids. "I think I remember it done that way at your graduation  
ceremony. It looked nice, as I recall."

Cassiel looked perturbed at the sentiment. "It wasn't a matter of  
fashion," he said, deadly serious. "But you knew that," the Angel  
of Tears added with utter certainty.

Well, no, he didn't know. The Metatron could ask Most Holy, but this presumed  
that the Deity would answer. "No," the Voice said slowly, a sinking  
feeling settling in. "I don't know anything about Uriel's past."

Cassiel looked up from his plate, eyes arched, as if he couldn't comprehend  
such a thing. "You are as close to Uriel now as Min...as anyone has ever  
been, and you've never asked?" Suddenly realizing what he had said, the  
angel added a quick, "My lord."

Panic was now setting in. He was such an idiot. These new angels, they had  
mortal pasts and....bother. "You don't understand," the Metatron said,  
feeling quite wretched and all-around foolish. "I don't...get out much. And  
I'm just not used to talking with angels like you," he said, closing his  
eyes. "Gabriel, Raphael...we were all here in the Beginning. Uriel's never  
volunteered the information, and frankly, I didn't think to ask."

"Ah," Cassiel breathed, comprehension flooding his eyes. He settled  
back into his chair, adjusting his wings into a more comfortable position.  
"I think I can fill you in a bit. It's not privileged information...but  
Uriel doesn't bring it up."

The Metatron leaned forward, focusing close on the soft words of the Angel of  
Tears.

"In life, Uriel belonged to a tribe called the Getae, or the Dacians, as  
the Romans called them. They were fierce warriors, frequently embroiled in very  
bloody wars. The Getae were a Thracian tribe, from what today is called the  
Austro-Hungarian region. The Romans called them barbarians." Another  
trademark, miniscule smile touched Cassiel's face.

The Metatron frowned. "Uriel's not a barbarian."

A small laugh actually escaped from Cassiel. "You ought to ask him about  
the times when they slaughtered the pack animals and drank their blood because  
there was no pure water available."

The Metatron's eyebrows flew up in shock. "Ew."

Cassiel raised a knowing eyebrow. "That was the Romans' opinion, too.  
The Getae had a patriarchal society, and their values system was something of a  
cross between that of the Celts and Vikings." Cassiel seemed to be thinking  
about something. "Well, except for their attitudes towards sex, which were  
more similar to the Greeks." He met the Metatron's eyes. "You are  
familiar with these peoples, aren't you?"

The Metatron nodded absently. "I do actually read the reports, you know.  
Though the last time I was down on Earth, I was visiting... let me see...the  
court of Cheops."

Cassiel looked envious. "Fourth dynasty?"

He nodded again. "Belial kept going on and on about the big Pyramid  
thingy. I wanted to have a look for myself. I ended up staying for a year or so.  
Gabriel was a little less uptight in those days, you understand." He  
thought for a moment. "I still have my journal of my time there, if you'd  
like to see it."

Cassiel's eyes lit up. "I'd be most grateful," he said, his natural  
quiet barely managing to restrain his excitement.

The Metatron waved such petty notions as gratitude aside. "Pish. You  
were saying?"

Cassiel paused and almost visibly recollected his thoughts. "Mm. Yes.  
The Getae, you see, believed that they were immortal and could not die. So you  
can probably imagine Uriel's surprise upon awaking to find a halo over his  
head."

"How?" The barely breathed syllable was out of the Metatron's mouth  
before he could stop it.

Suddenly the Angel of Tears looked quite uncomfortable.

And the Metatron knew he had to know. Because there was something crucial  
here, he just knew it. Something that might explain why Uriel was the way he  
was, why he did the things he did. He learned over the table and placed one hand  
on top of the other angel's. "Please. I have to know, Cassiel. I'm not  
asking you as the Voice of Most Holy. I'm asking you as Koe, Uriel's lover.  
Please."

Cassiel bit his lower lip with indecision. "He wouldn't have chosen to  
tell you this. But..." The intense depths of Cassiel's eyes bore into the  
Metatron's own. "If I may say so, my lord, you may be the only thing left  
for him. The Gates incident - " Cassiel was clearly referring to Miniel's  
possession of Uriel - "It hurt him more than he lets on, and I'm afraid  
when he sees me now, all he can see is Miniel's betrayal. And that was three  
betrayals too many."

The Metatron laced his fingers through Cassiel's. "Tell me. I beg of  
you," he pleaded, desperate to know what had happened to his love in his  
last moments on this Earth.

Cassiel tightened his grip on the Metatron's hand and took a deep breath.  
"There was a battle. Not unusual for the Getae. And Uriel's father was the  
Clan-Chieftan. During this battle, Uriel was fighting alongside his  
shieldmate."

"Shieldmate?" the Voice questioned softly, not wanting to interrupt  
but needing to understand.

"Lover. A warrior to guard your back." Cassiel's eyes rose to meet  
his, and the brown depths seemed liquid. Abruptly the Metatron realized that  
Cassiel was weeping. He scooted around the table, and gently brushed the tears  
from the boy's cheeks. The tears kept coming, though, so the Metatron wrapped  
the angel in an embrace, letting the inevitable tears dampen the grey wool on  
his shoulder. Quiet words sounded impossibly loud in the Metatron's ear.  
"But his shieldmate turned away. Ran. And Uriel, unprotected, was slashed  
in the back. The wounds of a deserter, for one who had deserved them not at all.  
And his father, finding his son dying on the battlefield with those horrible  
wounds, called him a traitor and shore the back of his head, to prove that the  
Clan-Chieftan would tolerate no cowardice, not even from his own son."

The Metatron found he was crying as well. Then, lifting his eyes from  
Cassiel's shoulder, he felt his heart stop.

There was a very distinctive set of angry blue eyes burning into his soul,  
and Uriel looked supremely pissed off.

   


* * *

Whatever Uriel had been expecting as he rounded the corner and approached the  
Roman Baths, it wasn't his lover and his best friend, crying on each other's  
shoulders. And as he approached, he could hear Cassiel divulging the most  
personal, most private, most humiliating moment of his entire existence.  
Something he wanted to forget, forget, forget, and here Cassiel was, spilling  
out the story of Uriel's death.

And as Koe's eyes rose and took his presence in, he read the guilt there.  
Abruptly, Koe disengaged himself from Cassiel's embrace and stood in front of  
Cassiel. Was Koe _protecting_ him?!

"Uriel," Koe began placatingly, but Uriel cut him off.

"We're not doing this here," he said roughly, grabbing Koe by the  
wrist, ignoring the grey-eyed angel's squeak of pain. He threw a contemptuous  
glance over his shoulder at Cassiel. "You and I will talk about this  
later," he hissed, his teeth clenched. He proceeded to walk quickly, and  
when Koe stumbled, trying to pull back, Uriel spit out several Getic oaths and  
slung the slender angel over his shoulder. "Don't even think about kicking  
me," he warned in a flat, even voice.

Koe's body went limp and he was silent as Uriel carried him inside the Baths.

Uriel set him down once inside, and not at all gently. And then for good  
measure, he pinned Koe against the wall, his hands trapping those girlish wrists  
so easily. "Now. You are going to tell me what you were doing, prying my  
personal history out of my best friend. And you'd better make it good,  
Koe."

Koe's eyes were defiant. "You've never told me. Not in all this  
time." Uriel's head was just close enough that Koe could brush the fingers  
of his captive hands against Uriel's black hair.

Uriel jerked back as if burned. "And why should I? What business is it  
of yours?"

"I _LOVE_ you, you heartless idiot! Did you think I wouldn't love  
you if I knew?"

Uriel growled and pushed Koe back in the wall, hard. The angel cried out with  
pain as his head connected with the wall. "I didn't ASK for you to love me.  
You're always pushing for more, more than anyone else." Uriel was aware,  
somehow, that he was ranting loudly, angrily. "Everyone else is happy with  
just sex. What is it with you? You've got to worm your way into my life, without  
even asking! You're an obsessive little stalker! _Who in God's name do you  
think you are?!!_"

And Koe brought up his knee and made direct contact with Uriel's groin. Hard.  
Uriel fell to the ground gasping.

And when he looked up, still kneeling on the ground, he saw that Koe's eyes  
were hard. "Who am I?" the Metatron asked, enunciated his words.

Uriel tried to take in a breath, tried to make the pain dissipate. "A  
possessive little bastard," he spat.

Koe seized his chin in one surprisingly firm grip and gave a humorless smile.  
"Try again."

He tried to pull away, but the other angel tightened his grip, painfully.  
"You're Koe."

"Wrong again." A sad, sad sigh. "Oh, Uriel, don't you know,  
after all this time?"

"Just tell me, already!" he yelled, frustrated.

Koe sank to his knees on the ground, facing Uriel. He cupped Uriel's face  
with his hands and leaned forward, so that their noses were almost touching.  
Koe's eyes were dark, dark, and somehow bright.

"I am the Metatron. I am the Voice of the Most Holy," the angel  
said. "I am older than Hell, older than this Earth that you lived on, and  
older than even the Tower in Heaven. I have served the Most Holy without regard  
for myself since the beginning of Time. I have done His will throughout the  
ages, through peace and Rebellion and death and beyond. I have always been  
alone, because few would dare to talk with the Angel who Hears the Most Holy. I  
have asked for very little in my existence, except for some hope that we win the  
Final Battle, and that you might find yourself able to love me."

Uriel froze, and forgot about breathing. Koe's nails tightened and threatened  
to break skin.

"So don't you dare take that tone with me again, _child_. I've been  
your Koe all this time, hoping you would see past it and see _me_. I've  
given you everything and the best you can manage is to spit on it and grind it  
beneath your feet. I saved your life, and you _still_ don't trust me. So  
what's it going to take, Uriel?"

Uriel said nothing. He couldn't say anything. Not when Koe was...was this.  
This frightening, intense, powerful being.

Koe sighed and rose to his feet. "All this time. This isn't about your  
freedom, Uriel. It's about your fear." A heartbeat. "I'm beginning to  
wonder if you didn't deserve those wounds on your back."

And that goaded Uriel into action. He was beyond fury, again, and it was  
boiling in his veins so hot, so frighteningly hot. "_HOW DARE YOU?_"  
he screamed. He tackled the Metatron and they both landed on the stone floor  
with a painful thump, and he wrestled the Metatron beneath him, pinned once  
again. "You will NEVER say that to me again," Uriel said, in between  
deep, shuddering, furious breaths. "I don't give a FUCK if God talks to you  
all the time," he yelled right in Koe's face.

"And I don't give a fuck about what your father did! It has nothing to  
do with us, do you hear me! NOTHING!!!" Koe yelled right back. "When  
will you stop looking for the knife in the back? I'M NOT GOING TO HURT  
YOU!"

Uriel stared down into Koe's eyes, breathing hard. Koe stared right back.

Finally, "Get off me."

Uriel rolled off him, his eyes focused on the ceiling, unseeing.

He heard Koe's measured step leaving the room, his soft, "Goodbye,  
Uriel."

   


* * *

One minute, they were all sitting in the Teacher's Lounge, watching Suriel  
trying to teach Mikael how to salsa.

"Move your hips, Mikael," Az grumbled. "Salsa is a fluid kind  
of dance." He watched for a few minutes and then knocked the rest of his  
drink back. "No. Suri, let me have a crack at it."

Az stomped over, and Uriel watched with very nearly unrestrained glee.  
"Now. These are your hips." He planted his hands on Mikael's hips.  
"You know the pattern your feet are supposed to go in, and that's good. But  
you need to..."

"Shimmy?" Uriel called out throatily, and then ruined it by  
laughing himself silly. Thoughtful, wonderful Suriel topped off his drink.

Azrael glared briefly in Uriel's direction, to which Uriel toasted him in  
response, before turning his attention back to Mikael. "Pretend you're  
Raphael. He's all loose-limbed - looks like he doesn't have a spine, some  
days."

"Well, he certainly is...flexible," Uriel purred. Both Azrael and  
Mikael glared at him that time.

Something apparently clicked, because a few moments later, Azrael and Mikael  
were pretty competently doing the salsa together. Studious, so serious Mikael,  
Uriel noted, wasn't a bad dancer when he let go. Must be the attraction in bed,  
he concluded absently, filing the idea away in his head, rather mechanically.

Suriel came back from the kitchen with another cup of tea and made himself  
comfortable on the couch. "So, Uriel, where's Koe? We haven't seen him in  
what? A month?"

Uriel's glass slipped through his fingers and shattered on the ground.  
"Damn," he murmured. "Sorry about that. Wanna throw me a towel,  
Suri?"

Suriel gave him an odd look, but returned with a towel and a dustpan. Uriel  
mopped up the mess carefully and picked up the glass. And when he was through,  
he suddenly remembered an urgent appointment that was anywhere else but the  
Lounge.

He left three shocked and confused expressions behind him.

   


* * *

Cassiel was in his office, as expected. Raphael had mentioned that the Angel  
of Tears had returned for a few days to submit a research proposal of some sort  
or another, and Uriel remembered that he and his very best friend were overdue  
to have a little chat. Well. Actually, Uriel was looking forward to a one-sided  
rant, because no matter how easy-going he was, he still had some pretty strict  
ideas of Things You Don't Do.

One of them was, Thou Shalt Not Rat Out Thy Best Friend's Innermost Secrets  
to Said Best Friend's Lover.

He didn't bother to knock. You could never hear Cass say, "Come  
in," anyway.

All thoughts of ranting disappeared when he opened the door. Because  
Cassiel's head was bent over a paper, and the combination of the mussed brown  
hair and the image of Cassiel's lips worrying at the end of his pen did  
wonderful things to Uriel's insides. After all, he'd made his way through the  
Barracks and was starting to get a little bored with the soldier boys.

But Cassiel was different. Cassiel understood. Good friendship and good sex  
could, and did, go hand-in-hand, no matter what others might think. And right  
now, Uriel could use a lot of both.

He stalked with purpose around behind the desk and pulled out Cassiel's desk  
chair, smoothly seating himself in Cassiel's lap with no wasted motion. He  
cupped his hands around the brown-eyed angel's face and said in his most sexy  
purr, "Say you're sorry, Cass."

Cassiel blinked. And then, with perfect diction, he said, "I am sorry  
that I revealed a confidence without asking permission." Uriel frowned as  
he noticed that Cassiel _didn't_ say he was sorry about what confidence in  
particular he had revealed. Fuck it. He could rant later. He shifted  
purposefully in Cassiel's lap, and then kissed the other angel with a  
considerable degree of expertise.

"I missed you," Uriel whispered in Cassiel's ear, taking the lobe  
in between his teeth and tugging on it, before laving it with his tongue.  
"Why'd you go and leave me all alone, anyway?"

"Alone?" Cassiel asked, with a breath that might have been a laugh.

"I hear you've been alone with the entire Exotic Dancing troupe. Poor  
you."

"Poor me," Uriel husked, grinding himself into Cassiel's lap.  
"Make it up to me, darling." His fingers made short work of the  
buttons on Cassiel's shirt. "Why don't you stay a little longer, this time?  
You can come stay with me, you know...we always have such...._fun_...together."

"Stay with you?" Cassiel repeated.

"Yeah," Uriel breathed, undoing both his and Cassiel's trousers.

"Fuck," he moaned, rubbing their erections together. "Missed you,  
_gods_! Stay over at my place, we could...all day..."

Cassiel's lips caressed his ear, and then he whispered, "No."

The word didn't penetrate the sexual fog clouding Uriel's mind for a moment.  
But once it did, he pulled back, dumbfounded. "No?" he asked,  
completely confused by the denial.

"'Stay with me'? 'All day'?" Cassiel quoted, looking Uriel straight  
in the eye. "Those requests aren't directed towards me. I know  
better."

Panic seized Uriel. "Of course they are. You're my best friend, Cass - I  
love you."

"I love you too," Cassiel said in a thick whisper. "But I  
refuse to let you use me like this."

"Use you?" Uriel repeated, bewildered. "Cass, I've never taken  
you against your will - you know I would never do something like that! That's  
not what friends do! Friends - "

"...don't use friends, dance troupes, and brigades of soldiers to try  
and forget their beloved." Cassiel did up his trousers. "Do  
they?"

"He's not my beloved!" Uriel insisted, and at the narrowing of  
Cassiel's eyes, cursed himself for a fool.

"_He_ is waiting alone, whilst you seek empty solace in the arms of  
anyone who will have you. You are my best friend, and I do love you - enough to  
tell you that it's not me you want." Brown eyes flickered to the floor.  
"If Miniel were here, he'd say the same thing."

Uriel sat heavily on the desk, unmoving as Cassiel gathered his things and  
moved to the door. On his way out, the Angel of Tears said softly, "You  
can't run forever, Uriel. And are you sure you want to run from him in the first  
place?"

   


* * *

Uriel was fairly certain that drinking with Raphael and Azrael was a bad idea  
right now.

At least, he thought he remembered thinking that. About four drinks ago.

"Another," he demanded of Azrael. The Angel of Death poured another  
shot of the hideous pink liquid. "It smells nasty," Uriel said  
thoughtfully, "Yet tastes like Strawberry Quick."

"Weird," Raphael and Azrael agreed in unison, before tossing their  
own shots back.

It also contained a fair amount of tequila, which meant that when Uriel  
attempted to stand up, he rather abruptly landed on his ass. He giggled a bit.  
"What am I doing here, anyway."

"Drinking with friends," Az said, mixing more drinks with an  
enviable degree of dexterity.

"Not methodically sleeping your way through the Barracks," Raphael  
volunteered, his cheeks flushed.

That almost seemed funny, for some reason. "And the City," he  
added, contemplating the latest drink that Az had pressed into his hand. It was  
green. Oh well.

Raphael and Azrael kept the drinks coming. Uriel was never one to back down -  
he liked to keep up. Besides, if you fell behind, the jokes weren't as funny.  
The alcohol stopped burning and Uriel was starting to feel _very_ good.

"So what's with the marathon one-night stands?" Raphael asked  
sometime later. There was something strange about how clear Raphael's words  
were. Something odd. Uriel couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe he'd ask later.

Uriel giggled and then hiccupped. "Just sharing the love."

"You were sharing it pretty consistently with one person for  
awhile," Azrael said, his bass tones seeming to reverberate in Uriel's  
head.

Uriel waved his glass negligently. "Nothing lasts forever, does it? I'm  
still waiting for the dagger.."

Raphael and Azrael traded a look.

"What dagger?" Raphael asked.

Damn, the man was persistent. Uriel was starting to get annoyed. "He  
told me. I'm still waiting for the dagger. In the back. You know?" He  
looked mournfully into his empty glass, shaking it a bit, hoping for more at the  
bottom. "So I thought, if I'm going to wait, might as well have fun,  
right?" Except that suddenly it didn't seem fun anymore.

Raphael took the glass from his hand and settled beside him. "Who told  
you? Koe?"

At the mention of the name, Uriel closed his eyes. Just when he was starting  
to feel good. He let his head rest on Raphael's shoulder. "Nah. He looked  
like Koe, you know? But he wasn't."

"No?" Raphael asked casually. "Strange. Who was he, do you  
think?"

"The Metatron," Uriel said emphatically, and he felt Raphael tense.  
"Bastard kneed me in the balls."

Azrael snickered.

"Asshole," Uriel muttered. "It hurt like hell. And he...he  
told me I deserved the marks on my back."

"You don't have any marks," Raphael said, looking confused.

Uriel shook his head with some effort. "No, no, the marks. The ones I  
died with. Called me a..." He started to sniff, and slowly realized that  
tears were rolling down his cheeks. "Called me a coward."

Raphael and Azrael both exhaled at the same time. "So that's what why we  
haven't seen Koe around," Azrael said quietly, like it was some sort of big  
revelation.

Uriel grinned through his tears. "Got him back, though. Called him a  
whining stalker. Even though it was the Metatron, not Koe, you know? Still  
pissed him off, though." The smile faded from his face again, and the tears  
fell faster.

"Fuck," Raphael breathed.

"Nah. Did pin him down a lot, though."

   


* * *

Gossip, despite its unsavory status, spread like wildfire through Heaven. And  
Uriel, a teacher at the School, could hardly help but hear the latest.

In the month since the Baths, the Metatron had yet to leave his Tower. The  
Door at the top, they said, was shut and locked. Sandalphon brought up trays of  
food, which seemed to be consumed at regular intervals, which meant the Voice  
was still there, and not wasting away. Unless he was chucking the food out the  
window, which the Guardians denied. But thick draperies blocked the windows, and  
the Metatron reputedly took phone calls only from Gabriel, Raphael, and his  
twin.

_I have always been alone._

"I don't care," Uriel told himself, shaking it off on his way to  
Gabriel's office.

He walked in and stopped in front of Gabriel's desk, waiting for the man to  
push over his schedule without looking up.

Gabriel did nothing. Uriel frowned and cleared his throat. "Yo, G-man?  
Schedule?"

"No schedule this month," Gabriel said curtly. "Go away, come  
back next month."

What the hell? What did he _mean_, no schedule?! There was always a  
schedule. Uriel wasn't looking forward to it, mind, but he wasn't going to shirk  
his duty just because he didn't want to be around the person involved.

"Gabriel," he said finally, "Why don't I have a schedule this  
month? Summonings always need to be done."

The Administrator finally looked up. "Because it will be that long  
before the replacement is trained."

Uriel's breath caught in his throat. "What replacement?" he  
demanded, his voice harsh.

Gabriel went back to his paperwork, his pen flying across the page. "The  
Voice is no longer available to assist you in routine Summonings, Vindicus . The  
replacement will be available next month. Until that time, all Summonings will  
be put on the wait list to be rescheduled."

Uriel stared at the Administrator, his mouth working but no words coming out.

And then he tore out of the office and ran like hell towards the Tower.

   


* * *

He ran into Sandalphon at the base of the Tower. "I'll take that,"

Uriel said firmly, lifting it out of Sandalphon's hands.

Sandalphon caught his sleeve. "Just where do you think you're going,  
young man?"

Uriel frowned. "I'm going upstairs."

Sandalphon grabbed one forelock and pulled Uriel even with him. "Listen  
to me, child. You've been breaking his heart for quite awhile now. What makes  
you think I'm going to let you do it again?"

Uriel winced as Sandalphon pulled harder on his hair. "Please. Just. I  
need to talk to him. Please."

Sandalphon let go and snorted. "You're welcome to try, I suppose. But  
you've never tried to talk to him before, so I sincerely doubt he's going to  
listen this time around. After all, he's always been alone. You've just  
convinced him that he was better off that way. Congratulations, you little  
bastard. Hope you're happy."

Uriel backed up slowly, and then ran as quick as he could up the stairs  
without jarring the tray too much.

At the top, the door was closed. He'd never seen the door closed before. It  
was a big, ornately carved, stately door. With no handle on the outside. He  
knocked.

"Just leave it, Sandy, I'll get it later," Koe's voice sounded  
through the heavy door.

He knocked again.

"Whaaaat?" Koe called, sounding thoroughly exasperated. "I'll  
get it, I promise. I'm busy right now."

Uriel frowned and knocked again. He smiled tightly as he heard Koe stomp  
across the room, grumbling underneath his breath about pushy twin brothers and  
not being at all hungry. Locks clicked and the door was wrenched open.

"Hi," Uriel said.

Koe's eyes widened, he squeaked, and then slammed the door shut in Uriel's  
face.

Uriel sighed and knocked again. "Koe."

"Go AWAY," the Metatron said, his tone desperate and close,  
probably just on the other side of the door. "Just go away. There's nothing  
left to say. You've made it clear how you feel."

"Open the door, Koe. Please. We need to talk."

"No, we don't," the Metatron retorted quietly. "I'm done with  
this, Uriel. No more. Go away."

Uriel sighed and leaned his forehead against the door. "I've been  
thinking."

"I very much doubt _that_. Go think someplace else."

"Who's the coward now, Koe? I just want to talk to you."

Silence, and then a resigned sigh. "So talk." He could hear cloth  
rasping against the door and heard Koe settle with a quiet _thunk_ on the  
other side.

Uriel sat down too, curling up next to the door and laying his cheek against  
it, as if he could somehow get closer to the room's occupant. "I'm not very  
proud of what I said to you in the Baths, Koe."

A disdainful snort. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

"I'm getting there," Uriel rebuked him. "I was beyond angry.  
It's been a long time since I told anyone about my time among the Getae. The  
last people were Miniel and Cassiel. I just..." he picked at his tunic,  
searching for the words. "I just wanted to forget it."

The Metatron made a soft noise on the other side of the door.

"And I wanted to forget you. Because you didn't just want to share my  
bed - you wanted to guard my back, too. I guess you know how I felt about  
that."

"Frightened," Koe said in a bare whisper.

Uriel tugged on one of his forelocks. "Yeah. Terrified. But you know  
what scared me even more than that?"

Silence.

Uriel pushed forward, certain if he didn't say the words now, they'd never be  
said. "You. Up here. Locked away from everyone. I don't think you should be  
alone." His throat felt tight. "It's not right. Because people miss  
you, you know. Your brother misses you. Raphael misses you. Suri and Az and Ari  
and all the teachers. I think even Gabriel misses you."

Tears finally burned their way down his cheeks. "And most of all, I miss  
you."

A sob from the other side of the door.

"Won't you open the door, Koe?" he asked, his voice cracking.

The door slowly creaked open. And there was the Metatron, his Koe, reddened  
eyes full of tears. They reached for each other at once, and suddenly he could  
and couldn't breathe, and they were twinned around each other, crying and  
holding each other so close.

"We can try, can't we?" he murmured into soft stormy-colored hair.  
"I've never...but I'd try, for you."

The Metatron pulled back, his expression miserable. "We _did_ try,  
Uriel. I can't...I can't do it again. I want all of you, or I don't want you at  
all. Do you understand? I love you and it hurts so fucking much. I just...I need  
you, and I just can't stand this almost-ness again, Uriel."

Uriel touched his lips to Koe's temples. "Do me a favor."

Koe hiccupped. "What?"

"Help me take off my shirt," Uriel requested quietly.

Koe looked puzzled, but obediently helped Uriel out of the soft cotton. And  
then Uriel pulled him into an embrace. "Move your hands up to my  
wings," he instructed, and Koe's so-pretty hands slid up to where the wings  
joined Uriel's flesh.

"That's my back," Uriel whispered into Koe's ear. "It's yours  
to watch from now on."

Koe started to cry again and clutched him tight. "I will, I swear to  
Most Holy, I'll take care of you, I love you..." Sobs wracked the slender  
body in his arms.

"Shhh," Uriel soothed. "It works both ways. I watch out for  
you." He pulled back a bit so he could look in the other angel's eyes. And  
knew that he had to say it, had to say it now.

"I love you," he whispered, and held Koe's eyes with his own,  
trying to make him believe. When he felt tears well up once again, he buried his  
face in the Metatron's hair, holding the Voice of Most Holy tight, and whispered  
again, "I love you."

Koe was quiet in his arms, almost eerily so. And then, muffled against  
Uriel's shoulder, Koe muttered, "No comments from the peanut gallery, thank  
You very much."

Uriel couldn't help it. His body shook with laughter, and soon the Metatron  
was laughing too, and they had to hold each other so tight to keep themselves  
from falling over. When they caught their breath, Koe led him over to a window  
and patted the sill.

"Have a seat?"

Uriel looked over the edge and gulped, because it was somehow scarier to look  
out the window than to fly above the Tower itself. "I...well..I  
don't..."

The Metatron sat on the ledge and held out his arms, smiling. "Come  
here, Uriel. I won't let you fall."

   


* * *

Cassiel was doing his level best to ignore the chaos of the teachers' lounge.  
He had found that not dropping in periodically made people accuse him of being  
antisocial, and really, it was easy to stop in for short lengths of time than to  
put up with all the heckling that occurred if he made himself too scarce.

Hence, he was engaged in being what he referred to as "co-social" -  
being in the same room, but not necessarily paying one bit of attention to the  
general proceedings.

"_That's_ not what the Guardians say. Can you _imagine_ doing  
it on the sills of _those_ windows?"

"There's a reason I call it Too Bloody High, you know. With my luck, I'd  
fall, miss the updraft, and whack my head on the Tower. Then Gabriel would be  
appointing a new Professor, and your lives would suck."

"No, tell us how you really feel, Raphael."

Cassiel thought about investing in some ear plugs.

"Really, though, they don't seem a whole lot different."

"How the fuck could you tell?"

"Really. The only words out of their mouths in the past month have been,  
'Don't stop' and the perennial favorite, 'Harder, _yes_, give it to  
me!'"

"Raphael-sama!"

"Oh, wait. That's us."

General laughter. Cassiel tried to burrow deeper into his chair, still  
reverently holding the ancient volume in his lap. He turned the page, sparing a  
moment to admire the elegant handwriting. Really, the author had done a fine job  
as far as aesthetics went.

As far as the content, Cassiel was hard-pressed to keep a smile off his face.

_And a big triangular pile of bricks is all very well and good, but Cheops  
really has the most _dreadful_ taste in jewelry..._

 


	21. Rome Wasn't Built in a Day

Despite having perfectly good long days, school invariably started early in  
the morning.

This was still unusual to Uriel, though he'd been dead a good three years. As  
a chieftain's youngest son, he'd had luxury as such things were considered,  
although he'd had to learn weaponry and warfare. All sons did and probably  
always would. Nevertheless, most days he had been able to sleep in and wake to  
find a slave had placed a goblet of mulled wine beside him.

Heaven, of course, had many more opportunities for luxury. It hadn't seen  
warfare since the time of the Rebellion. Money meant very little, although it  
was still practiced out of habit by most people; still, if one was in need or  
just want, the desire could be provided.

Despite all that, Uriel was woken damnably early in the morning every day by  
an unnatural beeping noise which was supposedly an invention credited to  
Gabriel. Uriel didn't believe a word of it. In _his_ opinion, it had to be  
a creation of the Fallen One himself. The "alarm clock" -- so called  
for the sense of alarm it instilled in the sleeper -- was utterly evil.

Mornings were for sleeping through, preferably with a warm body or two at  
your side.

He rolled over and tried to stuff a pillow between his ears.

After a moment, the godforsaken noise shut off and Uriel blearily opened one  
eye to see Miniel leaning over him and smiling, one hand pushing down on the  
alarm clock.

"If anyone manages to become an angel, it will be you," he told  
Miniel fervently, though with a little private doubt. Miniel was, after all, a  
morning person.

"We have to... get up," Miniel said, after a long moment of just  
smiling. "We're going to be late, if we don't hurry."

Hurry, hurry, hurry. Mornings were all about _hurrying_. Even sex in the  
morning was only ever a quickie. Uriel groaned. "If I choose not to go  
today, will you lie for me?"

Miniel's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Sweet boy, I'd lie for you any  
day. But you might wish to reconsider. We're supposedly meeting our new roommate  
today. Don't you want to be properly introduced?"

"Fine," Uriel grumbled, and stumbled over to his closet.

Behind him, Miniel was whistling.

   


* * *

Cassiel trudged, as he always trudged. It was raining outside, as it usually  
did whenever he had to walk anywhere. He'd remembered to bring an oilskin this  
time, at least, and ducked under it, watching his feet kick up mud as he walked.  
Listened to the squelching. _Hopeless_, he thought, distracted. _I'll  
never be able to leave the mud behind._

A gust of wind picked up and whipped his oilskin nearly out of his hands. He  
clung to it, cursing. It was only a moment before the wind died down again, but  
that was a moment without protection and his clothing was, as always, soaked,  
his hair plastered to his skin. He tucked the oilskin around him as if it  
mattered.

_So much for good impressions,_ he thought, almost wry. He'd been living  
in the City for the last few years due to the rooming problem, but Gabriel had  
called him in the other day -- for which he was highly appreciative as the  
Administrator had such a busy schedule -- and had told him that he would be  
sharing an exam with two other students and would room with them for the exam  
period.

Starting today. Of _course_ that meant that he was to arrive muddy and  
wet.

Well. No way around it. He tilted his head back and stared at the sky with  
somber eyes for a moment, watching shapes in the storm clouds, and then moved  
on.

 

* * *

They managed to squeak in just before the bell, which Miniel considered a  
major achievement of his. Uriel had looked just _so_ nice wearing the  
outfit he'd been born in, and Miniel _had_ lied about the amount of time  
they had.

He smirked over at Uriel who looked back as nonchalantly as only Uriel could  
manage. He had to envy Uriel sometimes; the other boy could look as innocent as  
a child in less than half an hour after he'd been moaning and clawing at the  
wall. Miniel was certain that whenever anybody looked at him, they knew exactly  
what he'd been up to an hour before. He leaned over and said as much to Uriel.

"That's because you smirk," Uriel said, smirking himself. "And  
you half-close your eyes and look around the room in this smug but not quite  
satiated manner, and scan the people around you as if your eyes could undress  
them..."

People within hearing range were starting to snicker. Miniel glanced around,  
eyeing them. "It doesn't seem to work," he told Uriel after a moment  
and, damn it all, Uriel was right, he _was_ smirking. "Their clothes  
are still in place. I suppose I'll have to work on it."

Uriel laughed and Raphael strode in and took a seat on the desk at the front  
of the room.

They said that Raphael was the oldest teacher in the school, and though they  
had several professors, Raphael was the only Professor. Still, supposed age  
aside, Raphael was delightfully attractive. Rugged, but with a slight edge of  
pretty and eyes that danced. Miniel wondered, not for the first time, whether  
angels really _were_ open-wave telepathic and if he could get away with  
fantasizing about Raphael in class.

"Well," Raphael said, smiling out at his class in a relaxed manner.  
"Shall we begi--"

He was interrupted by a student bursting into the room and bowing hurriedly.  
"I'm sorry to be late, Professor," the student mumbled and found his  
seat, dripping.

   


* * *

Cassiel. Uriel had seen him around before, in several classes, but the boy  
hadn't made too much of an impact on him. Cassiel was pale and thin and probably  
in need of some kind of visual aid. He was nearly always rag-tag, and frequently  
looked as if he'd encountered a particularly vicious mud puddle on his way to  
school.

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him and he sent a note down  
Cassiel's way. _What happened to you?_

Cassiel glanced up when the note reached him, slightly suspicious, but it  
wasn't too long before a response came back to Uriel. _Got caught in the rain._

Startled, Uriel glanced over at Cassiel. Rain? Uriel had a fairly good  
weather sense, and found it hard to believe that it had rained at all that  
morning. Of course, he'd been otherwise occupied, he had to admit.

He was about to answer when he saw Cassiel, as he was taking notes on  
something that was probably important, shake his hand furiously, mouth moving as  
though he were cursing under his breath. After a moment, he saw why -- Cassiel's  
quill had split and spattered ink on him.

Uriel shot Cassiel a sympathetic smile and saw Cassiel look down, as if  
ashamed. _How did I miss it?_ Uriel asked himself. _The boy is  
adorable..._

Raphael had perhaps seen part of the exchange, or at least Cassiel's minor  
disaster, because he came over with a handkerchief and a new quill. "Here  
you are, Cassiel. I pray it lasts a bit longer than your old one."

Statements like that always made Uriel wonder. By pray, did he mean...?

   


* * *

Shame, public disgrace. Cassiel accepted the quill with what he hoped wasn't  
too much ill grace. "Thank you, Raphael-sama."

Class went on much as it always did, Cassiel's quill flying over the page  
with the occasional ink spot, but taking down everything he thought could be  
important. He probably had the best notes in the class. _It would be hard to  
take more,_ he thought.

Raphael stopped suddenly and checked the clock. There was a long moment of  
silence before Raphael smiled. "Well, it's the time you all have been  
waiting for, I'm afraid." The Professor reached into his pocket and pulled  
out a handful of -- Parchment? Vellum? Cassiel wasn't sure -- and began  
distributing them around the class.

Cassiel did not get one. He raised his hand.

"One moment, Cassiel. Wait after class. You too, Uriel, Miniel."

Cassiel blanched, wondering what he'd done wrong, and sank down into his  
seat, hunched over. Had he broken some rule he wasn't aware of? Hopefully, there  
were just some complications with the exam, but...

The class filtered out, most looking distressed. "Well," Raphael  
said when it was just the four of them, "I'd like to introduce you to your  
new roommate. Uriel, Miniel, this is Cassiel. Go easy on him, okay?"

Cassiel was full of horror and tried desperately to keep it off his face.  
Uriel? Miniel?! The whole school knew about the "Terrible Two".  
Pranksters and sex-fiends were some of the kindest words that had been said  
about them. What _was_ Raphael thinking? _I like to read and keep to  
myself. There's no way... I'll die, or kill them, or..._

"Pleased," Uriel said, and Cassiel dredged up a smile from  
somewhere. It was a small, hopeless smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"The pleasure is all mine," he murmured.

   


* * *

Miniel looked Cassiel over with a critical eye. Cassiel was underdeveloped  
and seemed to squint a little all the time, but was rather pretty for all that,  
in a scrawny, pale sort of way. Almost certainly a virgin, poor thing.

Ah, well. If Raphael ordered it. If worse came to worse, Cassiel would just  
have to learn to ignore Miniel's activities with the intensity that the boy  
supposedly put to studying. He smirked. It would take that much effort to  
ignore, of course.

"Charmed," Miniel said, and Cassiel smiled faintly.

"And now, your exam," Raphael said. "The reason we are having  
you all room together, of course, is because you three will be taking the same  
exam."

Uriel frowned. "Isn't that unusual?"

A slight shrug from Raphael. "We've had two angels have to pass together  
before and probably will again. Three isn't that much of a stretch."

"But why?" Miniel asked.

Raphael raised his eyebrow. "That's for me to know. Now, here's the  
situation."

Situation? Miniel smiled. He could handle a situation exam, no problem.

The Professor took a deep breath before diving in. "We will direct you  
to a hill known as the Palentine Hill. On it is a settlement, primarily composed  
of farmers and shepherds. Unfortunately, across the river is a highly advanced  
civilization known as the 'Etruscans'. The Etruscans have recently noticed this  
small settlement and is deciding what to do with it. Resolve the conflict,  
however you want. You will be graded on decisions that will affect the future of  
both peoples, not just the present."

Shock like an icy river. He stared at Raphael.

   


* * *

"Let's put it off," Uriel suggested later that day, sprawled on his  
back on his bed. "At least until we have a better idea where we want to go  
with this."

Miniel looked at him doubtfully. "_Can_ we put it off? I mean, the  
humans will make some kind of move at any rate. It's really just influence that  
we'll have here. If we wait too long, we might have an instant fail."

Picking irritably at a loose thread of wool on the bed sheet, Uriel sighed.  
"I want you to know I hate it when you're right."

Smirking, Miniel rolled over. "Oh, you love it."

"You know, I always think more clearly after sex," Uriel said,  
smiling heavy-lidded at Miniel. _Or at least,_ he mused, _I can put off  
worrying for a bit longer._

It wasn't just that Miniel was a good lover. He was a supernaturally good  
lover, seeming to have the same sense for sex that Uriel had for weather -- he  
knew what was wanted when, and how. Uriel let his eyes drift shut as his lower  
lip was sucked on.

He jerked upright as the door was shouldered open and Cassiel walked in. Eyes  
glanced over them, then away as Cassiel slung a bag off his shoulder.

"Right, you're moving in today," Uriel said inanely, feeling a bit  
stupid. "Can I help you with your stuff?"

The boy glanced over with a look akin to distain before his expression went  
neutral. "No, thank you, I think I have everything."

Beside him, Miniel sat up, disgruntled at the interruption. "Just that?  
Not very much. I didn't think you _could_ be poor in heaven, but I see  
you're trying."

Cassiel's eyes darkened then returned to blankness again.

   


* * *

He sought, desperately, for something neutral to say in response. "I  
might be out tomorrow. I was thinking of going to Carthage to learn more about  
both the Etruscans and these Latins."

Uriel smiled gratefully, and Cassiel felt a bit regretful for his earlier  
disgust. Still, the sight of them about to do something like _that_ when  
they had something so important that they should be doing instead...

"Oh, right, I'd heard you're the perfect student," Miniel said,  
sneering a little. "I'd heard you're Hebrew."

Cassiel hesitated, knowing the tone this would take but not knowing why.  
"I...was."

"I'm sorry," Miniel said sympathetically. "That must be  
horrible for you."

Anger. Of all things, to insult his ancestry. "None of us have  
nationalities now," he said carefully. "You might wish to remember  
that."

Uriel was glancing back and forth between them with an expression Cassiel had  
last seen on his late aunt when she was debating whether to separate two of the  
dogs.

"_I_ think," Miniel said, snotty, "that we can hardly  
have any sort of moral background without remembering who we _were_ as well  
as who we _are_. _I_ was Babylonian. A wonderful city with plenty of  
culture." The tone implied that the Hebrews had never had culture and never  
would.

_If I don't give as good as I get,_ Cassiel thought, _he'll make my  
life miserable._

"Babylonian?" Cassiel said aloud. "Well." He gestured out  
the window at heaven. "It must have burned when you realized that we  
Hebrews _were right about this_."

Miniel's face went blank with shock.

"Actually," Cassiel said, "I think we might have heard of you  
in OUR _culture_. The Whore of Babylon, right?"

The other student's face twisted with rage. Cassiel prepared to dodge to  
safety but Uriel lunged first and caught Miniel before he could fling himself at  
Cassiel. "Miniel!"

"Let me go! I'll kill him!"

"Miniel, calm down!"

Shakily, Cassiel straightened his robes. "I'm going to Carthage  
now," he announced more for the sake of something to say than anything  
else, and slipped out the door.

Outside, he leaned against the wall for support, then sank down it so he sat  
huddled, head on his arms.

_I will not cry. I will not cry._

   


* * *

With the target gone, Miniel's rage slipped away and left him trembling,  
clinging to Uriel's restraining arms with hands suddenly gone numb.

"I..."

Slowly, Uriel relaxed his grip, and Miniel found that he couldn't turn to  
look at his friend. He felt sick, stared at the bed sheets, crumpled and twisted  
from his lunge.

"Miniel..."

"I'm not a whore," he said, trying for his usual assurance and  
failing, instead finding his voice on the edge of tears. "I... _damn_..."

He shook. He couldn't ask for anything. Couldn't open his mouth to say  
another word. Uriel knew, he'd told Uriel his history.

**Dance, boy, dance.**

And he moved like fire, as he'd been taught, lithe golden body spinning among  
veils until the audience could not bear to just watch any longer and reached out  
to

_Does everybody think that of me? Even here? I thought here, I could be  
free..._

Carefully, Uriel put his arms back around Miniel, this time in an embrace and  
Miniel crumpled, tried not to but felt himself crumple anyway to cry, hoarsely,  
on Uriel's shoulder.

"You're not a whore anymore," Uriel said, and somehow, that hurt  
worse.

   


* * *

When Cassiel slipped back in during the late afternoon of the next day, Uriel  
tensed, seeing the sneer cross Miniel's face, seeing the dodgy way Cassiel  
avoided looking at either of them.

_Shit. We're all going to fail at this rate._

"You two," Uriel said, and then pointed at Miniel as his roommate's  
mouth opened "No, shut up, Miniel. YOU too, Cassiel."

He glared at both of them. "You are both acting like _children_

here. Listen, Cassiel was right. It's not about our pasts, it's about our  
futures."

They both looked at him sullenly.

Uriel rolled his eyes. "Listen. We are all... we are ourselves. How can  
we expect to be angels if we're always lashing out at others? I mean, sure.  
Miniel gets around." He directed his gaze at Cassiel, careful not to look  
at the betrayal he was sure would be on his friend's face. "But he does so  
because he likes people, and people like him, not for any cruel reason. And yes,  
you study a lot, and come from a certain background. So? Studying has a _lot_  
of value. And as to background... my people were the Getae. We all thought we  
were immortal. I was proven wrong, but, you know? I got over it." He held  
his hands out. "We are _who we are_, not _what we were_. If you  
two can't accept that, we're going to end up in the City as just more souls, and  
we might as well get used to that."

Dead silence as both stared at him. Uriel sweated slightly. _Well, one of  
them is going to have to be the first to apologize._ He fixed Miniel with a  
wrathful gaze.

Their eyes held for a moment, Uriel making sure he let his promises of  
violence show through, Miniel's smouldering with anger for once, and Miniel was  
the first to let his eyes drop. A moment of silence and Uriel thought  
impatiently _~Come on, Min, show the dove~_, wishing he'd paid more  
attention in the 'pathing classes.

"I'm sorry, Cassiel," Miniel said finally, reluctant. His lips  
twisted for a moment. "I behaved badly. As did you, mind you."

Quickly, Uriel glanced back at Cassiel. The smaller boy's eyes were downcast  
still but he murmured, "I did, yes. I accept your apology." When he  
finally raised his face, his eyes were guarded.

_Well,_ Uriel mused. _It's not much. But it's a start._

   


* * *

When Cassiel had to be in the same room as them, he'd write, quill scribbling  
across the page, head down, hoping that they would ignore them. Usually, they  
did, chatting together as they probably always had.

But this night it seemed that Uriel was out with a lover and Miniel was idly  
tossing a pendant-necklace from one hand to the other, sitting on his own bed.

Cassiel snuck a look.

Miniel was undressed down to his trousers, and his skin looked as if the  
muscles under it were toned, as if he'd exercised frequently in life. His hair  
was in a short cut, the bangs flat along his eyebrows, the rest of its spun gold  
cut straight to his chin.

He caught sight of a design peeking over Miniel's shoulder and, curious,  
leaned forward a little for a better look. It was imbedded into his skin, either  
through fire or -- one of the Egyptian students had what she called a 'tattoo',  
made of ink inserted under the skin with needles. It sounded like a hideously  
painful process, but Miniel had one, a complex cuneiform-style leaf with a  
flower bursting into life above it.

Realizing he was staring, Cassiel jerked his eyes up and watched Miniel  
watching him. "Sorry," Cassiel said automatically.

Miniel rose and strode over, strong legs pushing against the fabric of his  
pants and Cassiel cringed back, fearing a beating or worse.

But no, Miniel just crouched down across from him, smiling amicably.  
"You were looking at my tattoo?"

Helpless, Cassiel could only nod. _I'm going to DIE. Again._

Miniel turned, presenting his back for closer inspection.

Cassiel swallowed. It looked so smooth, up close, as if it were actually a  
part of the skin instead of some kind of decoration. Unable to stop himself,  
telling himself that Miniel probably expected it, he reached out and traced a  
finger over it.

All he could feel was skin. It was as if the pattern was natural.  
"Is...is it normal? Or is it actually a tattoo?"

Miniel chuckled, skin rippling over his back, making the design jerk.  
"It's just a tattoo."

Curious, Cassiel traced it again with a fingernail. "What does it  
mean?"

There was a silence and Cassiel paused, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Stillness. Miniel was stock-still, like a rabbit sensing danger.

_Or,_ Cassiel mused, withdrawing his hand quickly, _like a cat that's  
just spotted its prey._

"It's a fertility symbol," Miniel said blandly, turning and  
standing, smiling pleasantly. As if the exchange hadn't happened, he leered.  
"Do YOU have any marks in interesting places?"

Predictably, Cassiel blushed.

   


* * *

_He's not that bad,_ Miniel realized, watching Cassiel sleep, face first  
in a book.

Cassiel's brown hair was spread across the book -- Miniel knew _he_  
couldn't read the language, and it certainly hadn't been translated into angelic  
script.

A cool spring breeze passed through the room and Cassiel shivered. Miniel  
snagged a blanket, weighed it thoughtfully in his hand.

Cassiel had stopped shivering when the breeze had passed but seemed to be  
sleeping a bit more uneasily. He shifted, and the page of the book made a quiet  
ripping noise.

Miniel draped the blanket gently over Cassiel's shoulders, looked around to  
make sure that nobody had noticed, and stalked out of his room, scowling.

What he needed, he decided, was a nice fuck. Good thing that there was always  
one available.

   


* * *

Uriel grinned as Miniel reached for a bread roll at the same time that  
Cassiel reached out for it. The other boys stared at each other for a moment of,  
apparently, dumb shock, and then both let the bread roll go at the same time.

It was cute. Neither of them were willing to admit that they'd begun to  
consider the other a friend, but to Uriel's eyes, watching them day in and out,  
there was no doubt about it.

"Please--"

"No, really--"

Uriel reached out, took a large bite of the bread roll, and chewed, grinning.

   


* * *

After a couple of weeks had passed, Cassiel found he was getting to actually,  
well, like his roommates. He would rather cut his own heart out than tell any  
students that, of course -- instead, he complained about their willingness to  
fuck at any given hour, and their even odder tendency to bring a third party  
home to join in. For what it was worth, however, when it wasn't spontaneous they  
did try to warn him ahead of time, and he knew when to make himself scarce and  
when to turn his head to the wall.

And if he watched now and then, well, he was a teenager and nobody could ever  
blame him.

But when not grumpy, Miniel was if not fun at least interesting, and Uriel  
was always dragging Cassiel into their business.

A place, he had to admit, he didn't mind being.

"And I've got him nearly pinned, and he's so adorable with his tunic  
belt undone, and his hair all spread out like so and his halo bright against the  
pillow. And I lean over him and whisper--" Here Miniel's voice dropped into  
a sexy, groin-tugging murmur that Miniel was _so_ very good at "'I'm  
going to bury myself so deeply inside you that you'll be breathing me'. And he  
looks up at me with these huge eyes and he says," Miniel punctuated his  
sentence with a wave of his quill, practically crowing with delight, "He  
says, 'Is that safe?'"

Uriel gasped with laughter and Cassiel found himself smiling up at them over  
the book he was attempting, with little success, to read the crabby handwriting  
of.

   


* * *

Miniel let his eyes rove around the class, most of whom were looking tired at  
this point. Less fun -- too much exam stress, probably. He could sympathize; he  
was trying to enjoy things still, but that upcoming exam loomed on the horizon,  
constantly at the back of his mind.

_How to handle a war. Shit._

Still, he was determined not to let it show. He glanced around at Uriel  
sitting in the seat next to him and humming, tapping his quill, and then at the  
empty seat.

Where _was_ Cassiel? He'd said something about one of the texts he was  
reading, but they'd nearly been late that morning at any rate, and he should  
have shown up already.

At least the prof was late today.

As if on cue, Cassiel skidded into the class and Miniel grinned -- Cassiel  
was running flat out and that was _cute_. It was nice to see Cassiel  
breaking out of the 'quiet-sloucher' type. The boy really needed to be more  
outgoing.

Unfortunately, it looked like Cassiel's sandals weren't gripping all that  
well and that he wasn't going to be able to stop. Miniel winced as Cassiel  
impacted with a desk, knocking it over and getting tangled in the legs.

Uriel was up in a flash to go help Cassiel and Miniel watched, for a moment,  
the helpful limbs on limbs as Uriel detangled their roommate.

When it looked like everything was okay and nothing broken, he leaned over.  
"You've got the worst luck. Are you cursed, Cass?" he laughed, and  
then was surprised at himself to hear the nickname.

Cassiel smiled vaguely at him. "Uhm." After a moment, Cassiel  
seemed to notice that a very disgruntled student was pointing at his desk, as if  
demanding that it get straightened up. "Oh," Cassiel said weakly.

"I'm sorry, I--"

"Look at it," the student -- Melior, if Miniel could recall  
correctly -- was saying, pointing at his notes. "They're covered with ink  
now. What do you plan to do about it?"

Cassiel stared at Melior with a hunted look that Miniel could remember  
putting on the kid's face himself. Uriel glared, eyes swirling dark, and Miniel  
cursed under his breath. If someone didn't stop Uriel now, a brawl would start  
for sure.

_We're going to have enough troubles graduating without getting expelled  
for fighting, thank you._

Smirking a little, Miniel leaned over, letting his hair fall over his eyes to  
brush his cheekbones. He knew the effect it had. "Melior, honey, leave the  
kid alone. It was an accident."

"Yeah, and my notes?" Melior demanded.

"Borrow someone's."

Melior glared. "Fuck you," he pronounced carefully.

Miniel chuckled. "That's not how I remember it happening," he said,  
loud enough to be heard in the room.

There were muffled snorts and snickers. Most people were of the opinion that  
it was all right to sleep with men, as long as you were on top. Miniel narrowed  
his eyes. _Close-minded bastards._

Outwardly, though, he kept his smirk up. "I remember you as more  
easy...going than that, Mel. Cheer up, nobody was hurt."

Melior straightened his desk with a jerk, angry, head down. Uriel patted  
Miniel's shoulder as he passed. "Thanks."

Miniel shrugged the touch off and, settling back into his seat, saw Cassiel  
watching him with a slightly confused expression.

   


* * *

They were lolling together in rosy, if slightly sticky, sleepiness. Uriel  
rubbed his nose against Miniel's throat, feeling the pulse there, imagining  
sleepily that he could smell the blood, thinner and sweeter than horse blood had  
been. Still pumping, as if they were alive.

Miniel made a low noise that really could be translated in a number of ways,  
long fingers stroking thoughtfully over Uriel's shoulder.

It was peaceful here. Perhaps, even with the studies they'd all been doing  
into the cultures on earth, perhaps they had no chance of ever passing. But for  
now it was --

Noisy, actually, as Cassiel literally fell into the room, door banging back  
against the wall, the teen flailing, sending books flying everywhere. Uriel  
couldn't see what had tripped Cassiel up but a moment later the boy went the way  
of the books, landing in a vaguely crumpled heap.

Uriel and Miniel both looked at each other with identical expressions, not  
knowing whether to laugh or be worried.

Cassiel sat up with a groan, looked at them, and pursed his lips in an almost  
automatic look of distaste. "I'd ask you to help me up, but I see you're  
busy," he said, almost snidely.

With a shrug, Miniel swept the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around his  
waist as impromptu garb. Modesty -- what little Miniel _had_ of such a  
thing -- intact, he went over and helped Cassiel to his feet, only the hints of  
a smile tugging at the left corner of his lips.

Unfortunately, that noble gesture left _Uriel_ quite naked, and it was a  
bit chilly. He grumbled.

Cassiel looked at him and his nose wrinkled. "Oh, for... Uriel, go clean  
yourself up. I need to talk to the both of you."

Miniel fetched a basin of water and they both busied themselves on cleaning  
up; if there was one thing they'd learned, it was that Cassiel meant that tone  
of voice.

Still, when Miniel tossed a dirty cloth at him, it was only fair to retaliate  
and it could quite possibly have descended into hair pulling if Cassiel hadn't  
reached out and caught the cloths, giving them both a sharp look. The expression  
faded quite quickly into disgust and he dropped the cloths, but Uriel  
nevertheless felt quite chastened. "Yes, mother," he mumbled.

"Well," Miniel murmured, tugging his pants over his hips and  
fastening them with his usual sash, "What's so urgent."

"We have to decide what we're going to do."

A moment of silence, before Uriel dared to venture, "We have months  
left."

"Yes," Cassiel said pointedly. "Months in which we have to try  
to convince the humans to behave in the matter we _decide we need them to_."

Another long moment of silence.

Really, Uriel thought, there wasn't much of a chance for what _he_  
believed was necessary. You had a tiny tribe of shepherds and farmers living in  
mud huts on the side of a hill, and you had an incredibly advanced civilization,  
and they weren't getting along.

"Well," Miniel said slowly. "It's going to be one or the  
other. I don't like it, but the Etruscans have a very long, old, respectable  
culture. They have temples to their gods and bathhouses and civic buildings.  
They're going to have to win, or we'll have the death of a culture on our hands.  
They deserve it more."

Uriel scowled, picking at his leather breeches. "I don't like that, Min.  
I know they're GOING to win -- I know war, if I know anything. But that's the  
thing, even if a miracle happens and the Etruscans lose this battle, they have  
many cities and their culture WON'T be wiped out. The Latins, however, well. If  
they lose this battle, they'll all die. I know it's impossible, but that's what  
angels are for, right? To make the impossible come true. I want the shepherds,  
that tiny tribe, to win. Perhaps then they'll have a culture better than the  
Etruscans, if that's your worry, Min."

Miniel made a sour face at that. "A civilization of dirt-workers?"

Cassiel smiled vaguely. "It worked for us."

The blond boy was silent, apparently musing that over. Uriel was obliquely  
pleased. Not long ago, Miniel would have snapped back something nasty about  
slavery or something, which would have been a hideous example of pot and kettle,  
but Miniel was known for such things. Now he was considering it.

"What I want," Cassiel said, "is for both to survive."

Uriel laughed. He couldn't help it. "Cass, that's imp--"

"No, listen," Cassiel said, tone perfectly serious. "We have  
to get the Etruscans to help the Latins -- they prefer "Romans", by  
the way, after their city Roma -- we have to get the Etruscans to help the  
Romans develop civilization."

"It's a nice dream," Miniel said.

Cassiel continued as if Miniel hadn't spoken. "One side or the other  
would win without our interference. It's human nature to fight until one  
succeeds or one dies. The odds certainly favour the Etruscans, but one never  
knows how a rat will fight until its back is against a wall. Do you seriously  
think we can pass a test with either attempting to massacre the other? No. We  
have to work for this. Why aim low? If nothing else, we will have tried  
something ideal."

Uriel could find nothing to say.

"I don't know what kind of angel Most Holy would want me to be if I  
graduate," Cassiel said. "But I'm certain that it wouldn't be one who  
doesn't try to gain the best possible result."

When he stopped talking, silence fell. Uriel opened his mouth, and shut it  
again.

Cassiel smiled tersely, lips thin, triumphant.

   


* * *

He'd succeeded.

They were staring at him, stunned, but they were considering it. They had to.  
If not, they'd all fail; they had to work together, after all.

_Now_ they were staring at each other. Cassiel watched, interested. It  
was possible they weren't aware of how they were looking at each other, as if  
vying for dominance. It reminded him of the hounds back home. The battle was so  
common that they stopped doing it consciously after a time, but it was  
nevertheless very, very real.

Miniel looked away first, slowly starting to grin. "Cassiel, you are a  
genius."

He grinned. Why not respond in like kind? These were his partners, after all.  
"I know."

On the other side of him, Uriel laughed, delighted.

Miniel said, after a moment, "We have to get to know the cultures."

"Learn their tactics," Uriel added.

Cassiel nodded. _Good!_ They were going to get to work.

"But," Miniel said consideringly, "this is a very easy job to  
burn out on. It will be a lot of hard work. This is going to be very absorbing;  
we have to pace ourselves."

Uriel raised an eyebrow. "We can't put it off, Min. Cassiel's right  
about that."

Cassiel gloated silently.

"I know," Miniel agreed. "But how about we spend half the day  
researching, and the other half of the day relaxing? Then we can make sure we  
don't leave it to the last minute, and we can also make sure we don't crack  
under the strain near the beginning."

"Agreed," Uriel said, and spat on his hand. Miniel did the same and  
they pressed their hands together.

It seemed a barbaric custom for a moment, and then Cassiel reminded himself  
sharply that HE came from a culture where you grabbed the other man's groin  
while swearing an oath, and who knew how that looked to an outsider?

He spat on his own hand, joining it to those of his roommates.

   


* * *

Once they'd made their decision, they'd gone to Raphael who had listened  
intently and given them each 'temporary' gate keys, so that they could go back  
and forth between heaven and earth and do research. Miniel had been startled to  
see that Cassiel had already had one, but Raphael had smiled and said that  
Cassiel had gotten a head start on his research.

It figured. That was Cassiel, for sure.

No matter how he looked at it, it was hopeless. The Etruscans were proud;  
they'd never help mud-grubbers like the Romans.

Ah, well. He could think on it. He rose, stretching his back, and had just  
stepped out of the room when he was snagged by Uriel and, surprise! Cassiel and  
he were hussled off to a field he hadn't remembered going to before. In it, a  
large sprawling building, vaguely Minoan in style, lay like a king's palace.

"You gotta get involved in this," Uriel was snickering.  
"You'll love it."

"What?" Miniel asked, bemused.

"Cassiel's extensive research has told us that THE angel is going to be  
bathing in that there, within the hour." Uriel was pointing at a building  
that must have been a bathhouse.

"THE angel?" Miniel's amusement was growing. "And Cass?  
Really! I'd not have expected it of you."

Cassiel scowled, blushing faintly. "I'm going to take this opportunity  
to blame it all on Uriel."

"Aw, don't be like that." Uriel passed a hand over Cassiel's head,  
ruffling his hair. "You didn't HAVE to go and find out when I asked."

Cassiel's blush deepened and Miniel grinned at both of them. The unspoken  
statement in the air was that people just _couldn't_ ignore Uriel. They  
could like him or dislike him, but he had a way of getting an effect, one way or  
another. There were times, Miniel remembered, that he was a pain in the ass in  
an unpleasant way.

"Anyway, Min," Uriel said. "THE angel is exactly that. THE  
angel. The Voice of Most Holy."

It took a moment for Miniel to connect the statement with the intent, and he  
found himself gaping. "You want to spy on the Metatron in the bath."

"I admit to some curiosity," Uriel said, flightily.

"You're crazed. He could have you expelled!"

Uriel smirked. "That, my friend, is why I mustn't get caught."

Miniel shook his head, unsure if what he was feeling was respect or  
astonishment at his roommate's utter stupidity. "You are a better man than  
I, Uriel."

"Are you coming with me?"

He thought about that. Well. Two people were always more difficult to punish  
than one. "All right."

They turned as one to look at Cassiel.

"Oh, no," Cassiel said, waving his hands and shaking his head.  
"I've done my part. I'm sure you'll describe the adventure in great detail  
later."

"Lurid detail," Uriel corrected, and Miniel rolled his eyes.

   


* * *

They slipped into the halls, light and dark. The corridors were long and  
beautifully mosaiced, images covering every wall, ceiling, and pillar. It would  
have been painful if they didn't all match so well, were so beautiful.

The Voice must have had wonderful taste.

The bathhouse was just up ahead, by the feel of the air, and it seemed like  
they'd get there with no problems when Miniel stiffened.

Uriel shot him a glance, questioning, and then heard the footsteps himself.

With a bitten off curse, he grabbed Miniel and ducked into the nearby  
changing room, ducking behind a curtain. There wasn't room for both of them, and  
it sounded as if the person was coming this way.

He glanced at Miniel, terrified of the consequences, upset that this was  
going to come to an end so soon.

Miniel's face was blank for a moment, but then he smirked, leaned forward to  
plant a light kiss on Uriel's mouth, and tucked the curtain around Uriel.

In the muffling dark, Uriel couldn't see what was happening. The footsteps  
entered the room and a male voice called, "Your shoes are FINE, you  
twit," And then "Who are you?" in a tight, disapproving voice.

"I'm sorry," Miniel purred. "I seem to have gotten lost on the  
way to the public bathhouse. This isn't it, is it?"

"No. I'm afraid it isn't."

"I am," Miniel said, and Uriel's eyes widened, because he could  
hear a thread of power running under that tone, and, shit, Miniel shouldn't be  
using his old human powers on anyone here, but it was too late now, and it was  
only a HINT of power, anyway, "very glad to have gotten lost," Miniel  
finished.

Silence for a long moment and then, firm in Uriel's mind _~Go now.~_

Uriel snuck out, saw Miniel kissing an angel -- an actual ANGEL, not just  
some attendant! -- against a wall, and snuck out faster, not looking back.

The doors in front of him radiated heat, so they must be the bathhouse doors.  
He could hear soft singing from inside -- a bit of a warble, the kind of voice  
used when nobody's going to be listening to you sing. It was a shame, really,  
he'd hoped to get there BEFORE the Metatron did so he could hide somewhere in  
the room, but he could at least get a peek before he fled.

He pushed lightly on the door, hoping to just open it a crack.

He hadn't expected light doors, not when they were so massive, and it swung  
wide while he froze, heart hammering in sudden terror.

The figure in the bath turned, startled.

Beautiful. Droplets of water clung like diamonds to ivory skin and gray hair,  
and also to thick eyelashes which were sticking together as wet eyelashes were  
wont to do. Full lips were half-parted in surprise, and the hair trailed slowly,  
wetly, like touches across the angel's shoulders. The outspread wings were also  
gifted with water-diamonds, the wet feathers gleaming in the bathhouse lights.  
As if coming awake, the angel's eyes widened and Uriel saw that they were gray.

And then the angel let out an ear-piercing shriek and Uriel ran as if the  
hosts of hell were on his heels.

He heard a pause in the shriek behind him and a shouted "Well, You could  
have WARNED me, couldn't You?!" but didn't stop, just kept running,  
bursting into the student dorms and into his own room, diving for cover.

"How'd it go?" Cassiel asked.

   


* * *

Time passed.

Cassiel looked up from his notebook, where he and the others had been pouring  
over each other's notes for clues, for pieces of information to fall together.  
So far, no good.

He watched Uriel bend over Miniel's notebook, most of his short hair mussed  
from hands running through it, the two long thin braids in front of his ears  
sweeping forward to just brush the pages.

Perhaps Cassiel had been around them too long, but he didn't even hesitate  
before reaching over to tug lightly on the nearest braid.

"I get that a lot," Uriel said without looking up.

"Sexy hair is public domain," Miniel muttered, turning a page.

Cassiel considered this and smiled slightly. "Well, it's certainly  
unusual. Why is it cut like that? Is it cultural?"

Something about Uriel seemed to freeze, although he'd been motionless before.  
Now it seemed like ice had sunk deep into his skin and he was frozen, unable to  
move. After a while, he broke the ice and said, with a smile, "I got it in  
battle, I'm afraid."

"You say that like it's a wound or something." It slipped out  
before he noticed Miniel shaking his head at him in warning. Quickly, he added,  
"You don't need to talk about it if you don't want to."

Not looking up, apparently talking to his page, Uriel said, "The Getae  
wear their hair long, as warriors do, with braids in front of their ears. If a  
warrior is branded a coward, his hair is shorn."

It seemed impossible as the implications of that sank in. During all of his  
time here, Cassiel had never seen Uriel back away from a challenge. He  
remembered, although Uriel had never known _him_ then, when a few years  
back Uriel was nearly expelled for fighting. He opened his mouth then shut it,  
not knowing what to say.

Uriel went on in a monotone. "I was facing an enemy, a different  
Thracian tribe, in battle. Another of the enemy slashed me several times across  
the back. I fell. They let me fall." His head dropped down so his forehead  
was touching the book and the two braids lay twisted like snakes beside. "I  
was still alive when my father found me. I pleaded with him for help and he was  
lifting me when he saw the placement of my wounds, all on my back. 'My son's a  
coward', he said, and dropped me, and rolled me over so I was face down in the  
dirt and then pulled me up by the hair and before I knew it I was falling again  
as his bloody sword cut through my hair and sent me sprawling back in the dirt  
as my father let my hair fall around me." He was silent for a long moment  
and then added, "I was left there to die a coward's death."

Cassiel felt like he couldn't move, just staring at that hunched, quiet  
figure. Something rose inside him like bubbles in a well, he couldn't keep it  
back and ended up saying suddenly, forcefully, "That's horrible!"

"Or perhaps," Uriel said, still in that monotone, "I did turn  
to run. Only I and the men I was fighting will know, I suppose."

Another moment of silence and this time it was the opposite, there was  
nothing to say, nothing bubbling up, just an empty inability to think, with that  
statement lying flatly in the air.

Miniel reached out to put a hand on Uriel's shoulder but before he could  
touch, Uriel rose suddenly. "I need to piss," he announced cheerfully  
and headed out the door.

It was horrible. Cassiel looked at Miniel, tried to find something to say.

"He's incredible, isn't he?" Miniel said, rhetorically. "He'll  
always be a warrior, I think."

   


* * *

Miniel keyed back into the School and stood for a moment, disoriented. Other  
students walked past him, most of them younger and probably in lower years. He  
blinked.

Funny, but most of the students _were_ young, weren't they? He himself  
had died in his early twenties, about five years after reaching adulthood, and  
Uriel in his late teens, but he didn't think he'd ever seen a student here who  
was above thirty. And few were younger than Cassiel, who was probably in his  
middle teenage years.

But couldn't people of any age become angels?

"Ah, Miniel. Back from research?"

He shook his hair out of his eyes with a jangle of his bracelets and belt.  
"My Lord Raphael. Yes, I just got in." From a long day of uselessness,  
really. His head hurt.

"I'm glad to catch you out here," Raphael was saying in his usual  
pleasant tone. "Walk with me a bit? I was hoping to ask you a few  
questions."

Miniel's heart stuttered. He was sure that every student had nightmares about  
hearing those words. "Of course. As you wish."

Damn it, he could feel himself slipping back into subservience, feel the  
automatic twist to his hips and he could not, no matter how hard he tried, raise  
his eyes. He caught at his lower lip with his teeth and worried at it, trying  
not to think.

"My lord?" he asked after a moment of the most uncomfortable  
silence he could ever remember. "I was just noticing that all of the  
students are youths. Why not younger? Or, well, older for that fact? Can't  
gnarled old men of forty become angels as well?"

Raphael laughed, eyes warm. "Well, it's not that they can't. But  
children have little discipline for studies, and after a certain age people  
begin to stop wanting to try so hard, grow tired, stop caring as much. There are  
occasional candidates outside of youth, but usually the ones who died around  
your age tend to do best."

"Oh," Miniel said, knowing he sounded stupid, and said lamely,  
"That makes sense."

"Besides," Raphael added with a wink, "it gives you more  
appealing ones to choose from, hmm?"

The implications of that took a moment to sink in. "...what?"

"Which reminds me, I was wondering how things are going with your  
roommates," Raphael went on pleasantly. "I know how you... got along  
with Uriel. So, your relations... strained? Or are things still going  
well?"

Miniel stopped walking without being fully aware that he'd stopped, and gaped  
at his teacher in shock, the pauses ringing louder than the words were.  
"They're fine," he managed eventually, tentatively convincing himself  
that he'd misheard and Raphael _hadn't_ said 'relations' instead of  
'relationship'.

"Wonderful." Raphael had stopped too, and was leaning against the  
wall, eyes sparkling. "And Cassiel? A lot of people believed you two  
wouldn't get along. Is everything all right there?'

Well, that seemed innocuous enough. "We're getting along fine,"  
Miniel said. "He's kind of withdrawn, but he's a good enough kid, really,  
when he comes out of his shell."

Raphael looked around as if checking if the corridor were empty and then  
asked, "How is he?" It was said with a sort of lewd grin that left no  
doubt to his meaning.

Miniel stared and stared. This was a side of his teacher he'd never seen  
before and hoped he'd never see again. He swallowed before he said anything,  
then raised his head and, with knowledge of expulsion at the front of his mind  
said, "I don't know. I haven't had him."

"Really?" Raphael quirked one dark eyebrow. "I thought you'd  
had everybody at some point."

He clenched his hands at his side because if he didn't, he was going to hit  
Raphael. And though he was angry, he was clearheaded enough to realize that that  
was a Bad Idea. "My _lord_ Raphael," Miniel hissed. "I will  
admit that if he shows interest, yes, I probably will sleep with him. But I do  
have taste and discretion and I do _not_ force people and frankly, Raphael,  
it's _none of your fucking business who I sleep with._"

"As Professor, actually, it is."

"No, it isn't," Miniel shouted, and hadn't known he was shouting  
until he heard it. "It's my business and the other person's business and  
I'm not a fucking whore and I don't care if you get me expelled, I'm not going  
to pretend to be one just because you expect it!"

Raphael's lewd smile relaxed into a soft, pleased one. "Good. I'm glad  
to hear that."

Miniel gaped like a landed fish.

"And no, it isn't my business, and whoever you do end up with at  
whatever time, I have no right to say anything except 'I hope you find  
happiness, however long, however short.'"

Miniel shut his mouth, with effort.

Raphael smiled and put a gently hand on Miniel's shoulder. "I'm just  
glad _you_ know it," he said, and walked off.

   


* * *

Months passed.

"We're getting way too close to deadline," Uriel said finally,  
looking up from Cassiel's journal.

Miniel sighed. "It's just so... they're so UNCOOPERATIVE."

Uriel nodded. "This is just getting nowhere. No matter what information  
we gather, we just can't seem to..."

"We should do it together," Cassiel said.

Uriel paused, mind catching up from his half-sentence. "Pardon?"

"We're going down individually. I mean, we're sharing notes but... it's  
not enough," Cassiel muttered, apparently embarrassed. "I mean, we  
were assigned to the same room, right? Assigned on the same exam. We should be  
working together more. It's like the three of us happen to be researching the  
same topic, not like... not like three people whose fates depend on each  
other."

The boy's words dropped into silence.

"That's what we are, aren't we?" Cassiel said finally, with a  
plaintive, nearly desperate tone. "People who need each other for  
this?"

Uriel stared at him, then glanced at Miniel to see him staring at Cassiel in  
the same way. He grinned slightly, rueful. "You're right," he said.

Miniel nodded, after a moment. "Let's all go down to the Palentine  
together tomorrow, then."

"Yes." Cassiel was looking down, apparently having trouble meeting  
either of their eyes.

"Tomorrow," Uriel heard himself echo, awkward, and met Miniel's  
eyes again. There was that same guarded look there that Uriel knew was in his  
own; neither of them were good at depending on anyone. People weren't  
dependable, both of them knew that.

Still, it looked as if they were going to have to try. Uriel was damned  
before he'd back down from anything, however much it frightened him.

Cassiel rose after a moment and gathered up their books, putting them away in  
a pile and Uriel watched Cassiel's robes swish around his ankles until his  
attention was drawn away by strong hands turning his face for a kiss.

He let his eyes close, kissed back, focusing on the swirl of tongues and the  
heat of Miniel's mouth. Tomorrow was tomorrow, it wasn't today yet, and today  
they could still pretend independence and safety.

Miniel murmured something against Uriel's lips, a low buzz, and slightly  
cooled fingers slipped under Uriel's vest to brush and tighten nipples.

_Oh lord, I need this,_ Uriel thought, pulling Miniel closer, rising to  
his knees to grind against his roommate. He couldn't say that, couldn't say _I  
need_, so he just murmured a "Come here," and tugged at Miniel's  
hips.

Teeth grazed on Uriel's bottom lip, tugging, and Uriel panted into Miniel's  
mouth. He pulled back to breathe after a moment, still grinding gently, swaying,  
in promising foreplay but past the blond sheen of Miniel's hair he saw Cassiel,  
paused in the act of gathering books up, watching them.

Perhaps it was stress, sudden nervous tension watching that inexpression on  
Cassiel's face, but Uriel opened his mouth and found himself grinning and  
saying, "Hey, wanna join in?" Sure, he knew that Cassiel would turn  
and run but it was better, far better than that blank considering expression.

"I've never done anything like that before," Cassiel said  
forcefully, and Miniel peeled himself away slightly to also peer back over his  
shoulder at Cassiel, startled by the intensity in their roommate's words.

Uriel felt like a heel. "Yeah, I know, Cass. Sorry, I was just..."

"So you'll have to help me a little," Cassiel continued, stepping  
over some of the mess in their room and walking closer. "Or I'll embarrass  
myself somehow."

Somehow, Uriel was sure that the dumbfounded look he knew was on his face  
wasn't very attractive. "...huh?"

"I trust you," Cassiel whispered, coming to a stop beside them and,  
with a look of almost terrified fascination, reached out to run his hands  
through their hair, left hand on Miniel's shoulder-length blond locks, right  
hand twining into Uriel's own dark hair.

   


* * *

Cassiel had a mantra. It tended to change based on what he was feeling at a  
given moment. Right now, it was _what am I doing, what am I doing, what am I  
doing?!?_

They were still just staring at him. He squeezed his eyes shut quickly once. _What's  
the worst that can happen? Well, they can reject me, refuse to have anything to  
do with me, we can all three flunk the exam and be kicked out of the School.  
Okay, yes. That's a big worse, yes._

_What am I doing?_

Somebody's hand touched his face and he jumped, heart pounding, eyes wide and  
saw Miniel at the end of the arm, smiling ruefully.

"Cass, we appreciate it, really," Miniel said. "But--"

_Here it comes, here it comes, here it comes._

"But I think I speak for both of us when I say--"

_Shit shit SHIT._

"That I don't think you should be offering something that's this  
important to you just for the sake of solidarity."

Cassiel stared at him.

Uriel nodded. "No matter what, we'll work with you and, hell, care for  
you, you've been a good friend to both of us and we can hope to be the same. But  
I didn't even know you liked guys, and--"

"What do you know?" Cassiel muttered. _For it is death._

"Wrong approach," Miniel said, smacking Uriel lightly in the arm.  
"What he MEANT to say is don't do anything you don't want. We'd welcome  
you, but not if it's going to make you uncomfortable or anything."

"What do you know?" Cassiel said again, let his hand that was on  
Miniel's hair slip down to brush over his lips.

Automatically -- it _must_ be automatically -- Miniel let his tongue  
flick out, sucked a finger in.

It wasn't fair that that small thing could feel so good, that he could live  
so terrified for most of his life and have this feel so good.

Uriel rose and he jumped again, finding it hard to breathe, but Uriel just  
tugged him close in an embrace, just a simple hug, holding him.

"It's okay," Uriel said, and damn if he wasn't _perceptive_

after all.

"I know," Cassiel managed to say. "I just haven't done this  
before."

There was a delicate pause as Miniel thoroughly fellated Cassiel's fingers.

"With anyone?" Uriel asked finally.

"Um..." Cassiel had to turn his head away, unable to watch what  
Miniel was doing with tongue and lips and teeth.

"With girls?" Uriel insisted quietly.

He buried his face in Uriel's shoulder to hide his expression because he  
wasn't sure what it was, fear, embarrassment, want. "A couple, uh, failed  
attempts with girls," he muttered, too embarrassed to explain farther.

Miniel let Cassiel's fingers slip from his mouth with a popping sound and  
Cassiel let his hand fall to his side, unsure of whether it was proper etiquette  
to wipe his hand. If there _was_ a proper etiquette in situations like  
these...

Smiling a little, Miniel leaned against Cassiel to kiss Uriel and it was warm  
there, between them. Miniel pulled back after a moment and, from the vaguely  
constipated look on Uriel's face, they were sharing some kind of mindspeech.  
Cassiel had learned fast that Uriel wasn't very good at mindspeech yet.

Unsure, suddenly feeling left out, Cassiel said "Is it okay?" He  
realized how _stupid_ he could have been here, just because they both liked  
open sex and just because he'd decided he was willing didn't mean that they'd  
want _him_...

"It's okay," Uriel murmured back, and leaned down to lick Cassiel's  
ear.

Cassiel felt his lips form a startled 'oh'. He twisted uncertainly, because  
really that shouldn't have felt nice, and gasped when Miniel leaned forward  
again, pushing against him, this time to kiss Cassiel.

_Nice,_ he thought vaguely, allowing himself to put his arms around  
Miniel's neck, hearing himself making little noises like startlement against  
Miniel's hot wet mouth.

He wanted to move his hips and stilled, embarrassed, before deciding in a  
sudden rush, _no, this isn't a place to be shy,_ and he moaned aloud,  
relaxing in an instant so he sagged bonelessly against Uriel.

   


* * *

Miniel followed Cassiel down as Uriel sank to the ground supporting the boy.  
He kissed that pale neck, heard a gasp, thought _oh well,_ and bit lightly,  
swirling his tongue over the mark he left.

"I don't know what --" he heard Cassiel murmur between gasps, and  
heard Uriel's answer,

"Trust Miniel. He'll know what you're ready for, even if you don't. He's  
talented like that."

Miniel tossed Uriel a mock-irritated glance, but that was one of his old  
abilities from life he didn't mind using.

He lowered his mouth gently onto Cassiel's and inhaled, pulling at Cassiel's  
sexual line of tension until it connected them lightly, dipping slightly into  
Cassiel's thoughts as he went.

**Fear, fear, men have been killed for less but we're already dead, aren't  
we? And here it's safe, here nobody would be punished for sexuality, for  
touching with intent, here gender means nothing and it feels good, so good, and  
still fear, I want, I fear to give, I want.**

Fair enough, he wouldn't push for too much, then. This was the boy's first  
time, anyway, it _should_ be about him.

Smiling gently at the rather-flushed Cassiel, Miniel deftly undid Cassiel's  
belt, let his two layers of robes fall open, first brown then white, and  
underneath Cassiel was wearing a pair of thin white pants.

Miniel put his hand on the bulge of Cassiel's erection and rubbed lightly,  
little more than a shift of his hand.

The result was as electric as he'd expected, Cassiel arching, one hand  
reaching up to tangle in one of Uriel's braids, letting out a quiet groan.

Uriel wrapped his arms around Cassiel's torso, hands and fingers wandering.

Pulses spiked along the line of sexual tension and Miniel considered his next  
move. The boy was close. No wonder, either, at his age and having never had sex.  
No foreplay, then.

Gently, he tugged Cassiel's pants down to his thighs, gave Cassiel a quick  
reassuring grin, and slipped his mouth down over Cassiel's erection.

The noise Cassiel made could have been an aborted shriek.

He sought out the technique that Cassiel responded best to and stuck with  
that. Cassiel's hips jerked in a strained way, as if he were preventing himself  
from doing more.

He pulled back all the way and smiled at Cassiel. "You can move, you  
know." He didn't wait for an answer before going down again.

"You'll choke," Cassiel gasped at him in a strangled voice.

Uriel chuckled. "Cass, the day Miniel chokes, the stars will stop their  
movement and the earth will crack in two."

_~Fuck you,~_ Miniel thought pleasantly in Uriel's direction.

It didn't take Cassiel long after that and Miniel leaned up after to put a  
hand on the boy's heaving chest, to smile down sweetly, kiss, and release the  
sexual link. "Okay?" he asked, still smiling.

"Nng," Cassiel said, or something like that.

Miniel pushed himself up on one elbow to look at Uriel, who was still  
supporting Cassiel. He gave Uriel a look that he hoped communicated the  
appropriate amount of blueness of his balls.

Uriel grinned. "Top or bottom, Min?"

"Bottom," Miniel answered, shifting over Cassiel to snuggle up to  
Uriel. "I'm not going to last a _minute_ if I'm top."

"Pity." Uriel rolled a little, shucking clothing, and Miniel  
fumbled, suddenly frantic, with his own clothing.

They finished at about the same time and tangled together, kissing  
open-mouthed, already ready, and Miniel had just pulled back for air when he  
heard Cassiel's quiet murmur,

"No, please, don't leave me."

   


* * *

At those few mournful words, Uriel turned sharply to look at Cassiel and saw,  
shocked, that Cassiel was crying. "Shit. Cass? You okay, just, you..."

Cassiel nodded, still crying, and managed a "Lonely, don't leave me,  
please..."

Uriel shared a glance with Miniel and saw impatience there, though not cruel  
impatience. Just need, really. Uriel could sympathize, but still, they couldn't  
ignore Cassiel in this state. "What can we do?" Uriel asked aloud.  
"What do you want?"

_~To be held!~_

The mind voice exploded at both of them, tinged with fear, a feeling of  
abandonment.

Well, shit.

"We don't want to ignore you," Miniel said.

"I'm sorry," Cassiel said aloud, scrubbing at his eyes. "I  
didn't mean... I mean...I didn't..."

Uriel lay down beside Cassiel, uncertain, and Cassiel seized Uriel's near  
hand desperately, squeezing a little too tight.

Miniel leaned down, murmured in Uriel's ear, "Lay on your back."

Uriel couldn't keep himself from raising his eyebrows, but complied anyway,  
still holding Cassiel's hand. Cassiel curled onto his side towards Uriel, his  
robes trailing to cover him slightly as his arms were still through the sleeves.

Carefully, Uriel reached out with his other hand and brushed Cassiel's tears  
away. Cassiel smiled uncertainly at him.

Uriel jerked when Miniel slicked a preparatory hand over him, opened his  
mouth to comment, but was unable to do more than wheeze out a long gust of air  
as Miniel straddled him.

Miniel was still for a moment, then took Cassiel's free hand and Uriel  
watched him twine their fingers together, so that they each held one of the  
boy's hands.

"See, Cass?" Miniel murmured, voice low and thick with sex, moving  
slightly so that Uriel couldn't add anything, just gasp. And Miniel was still  
talking, meeting Cassiel's eyes as he moved. "We're here. We're here with  
you."

   


* * *

When Cassiel woke, he was cuddled tight between the two of them, Miniel  
spooned against him from behind, one arm slung over their hips, one of Uriel's  
braids laying on Cassiel's neck.

He closed his eyes again, wanting for a moment to disbelieve, but here was  
contentment, really. He was warm, he was cuddled. Safe.

He opened his eyes again and smiled slightly up at the ceiling. For a moment,  
he wanted to speak, to give thanks to them both but he remained silent, smiling,  
because if he spoke now, they'd wake and have to get up for the day.

And it was quiet here, content.

   


* * *

An afternoon nap was just the thing, really.

They'd been down all morning, and Miniel had come back for a rest, the others  
chiding him for being out in the sun too long. Among the locals, tensions were  
running high. The air _crackled_ down there, and without a doubt it was  
going to be soon.

The three of them had taken to calling it the Week of Reckoning, sure that  
sometime within the week the tension would break and it would be time for them  
to act.

It would be nice if they had a plan, really, but free will meant that they  
really couldn't predict things well enough to plan. They'd have to be on their  
toes.

So sleep now, and toes later.

He'd just closed his eyes, he was SURE he'd JUST closed his eyes, when he  
woke to somebody shaking his shoulder frantically.

"What, what?" he asked, trying to sit up and check the time  
simultaneously. "What time is it?"

"It's now," Cassiel said, and Miniel had a scathing reply all set  
up for that one, but then the meaning sunk in and he was out of bed, grabbing up  
loose trousers and bell-strewn girdle and shoulder-cloak.

"Why now?" Miniel asked.

"Hurry," Cassiel said.

   


* * *

Uriel stood on the plain that would logically be the battlefield, and peered  
first in one direction and then the other.

He knelt after a moment and ran his hands through the tall dry grass. He  
could taste in the atmosphere that it had not rained for a while, this dry hot  
summer, and the grass was suffering for want.

"You will be watered soon, if all goes poorly," he murmured to the  
dirt.

There was a flash as Cassiel keyed in with Miniel, and he rose from his  
half-crouch, letting the grass slide between his fingers.

"Okay," Cassiel said quietly, taking charge with a calm assurance  
as if he'd been born to it, as if they had never seen him indecisive before.  
"Uriel, you're the warrior out of three of us. Tactics?"

"Theirs, you mean?" Uriel clarified and, getting a nod, said,

"It's going to be pretty basic. Some calvary, bowmen, and a greater number  
of infantry, with a few siege weapons on the Etruscan side. For the Latins,  
pretty much just infantry. The Etruscans outnumber the Latins by about three to  
one."

Miniel cursed. "It's going to be bloody."

"That," Cassiel said, "is what we're going to try to prevent.  
Is there a single decision-maker for each side?"

Uriel nodded. "They both work on a hierarchical chain of command, with a  
general in charge of each army."

"Good," Cassiel said, and sighed, youthful face exhausted.  
"I'll go see if I can't convince the Latin general to calm down and be  
willing to bargain. Miniel, can you do the same for the Etruscans?"

Miniel pointed at himself in apparent disbelief. "I'm not good at  
talking to anyone--"

"You're great at temptation," Cassiel said. "And frankly, the  
Latins are no challenge for the Etruscans; they were just too much of a  
temptation not to conquer."

Anger. Uriel turned on Cassiel. "Are you suggesting he sleep with the  
Etruscan general in order to get him to agree to a truce?"

That met with a blank look that slowly changed to horror. "Oh... GOD no,  
Uriel. Miniel, I didn't mean... I just..."

"Actually," Miniel said, "You never know. That might do the  
job."

Uriel _stared_ at Miniel, unable to believe what he was hearing.  
"Desire's one thing, Min. But you _mustn't_ whore yourself just  
for--"

"Whore?" Miniel said. "Who said anything about whoring? I'm  
not going to sell myself for any kind of personal gain. I'll just do what I can,  
use whatever abilities I can."

Uriel closed his eyes, feeling something akin to pain, and rubbed at a sudden  
headache. "And me?" he asked Cassiel.

"Stay here and make sure none of the soldiers start anything rash. If  
anyone can stop them, it's you," Cassiel said.

Uriel nodded and watched them consider things silently for a moment before  
heading off towards the opposite camps. He sighed and sat in the field, feeling  
small. Strain was making his back burn and he worked his arms to try to ease the  
tension.

The dry grass crackled as he shifted and he stared up at the sky, willing  
clouds to move in.

   


* * *

His name was Gaius Bibulus.

He was a relatively young man, but looked old after too much worry, his blond  
hair slowly turning white at the temples, his trimmed beard already there. He  
had wrinkles around his lips but not his eyes.

The tent flap had not been pushed aside but when he looked up again a young  
man was standing there. The youth had a look as though he had been standing  
there a long time, possibly all afternoon. Superstitious, it reminded Bibulus of  
the way he'd been feeling that somebody had been watching him. He'd put it down  
to nerves at the time, but was no longer so sure.

The youth was wearing foreign clothing and had a peaceful look on his face  
that Bibulus was not used to. It seemed too, when Bibulus looked at him from the  
corner of his eye, that he had a light coming from his head.

Bibulus thought, _I don't need this. I'm a farmer, not a soldier or a  
priest._ He did, however, manage to keep his voice relatively steady as he  
asked "Are you a god?"

The youth looked startled, then smiled. "No, but it could be fair to say  
that I am a messenger of a sort."

Shakily, Bibulus smoothed down the front of his tunic. "I, uh.  
See." This was absurd. Yet it was happening, so he managed, "And what  
is your message?"

"That if you fight the Etruscans, your people will die."

Bibulus sighed, painfully aware of that issue already. "If we do not, we  
will die a coward's death. Our city, it turns out, is on an Etruscan trading  
route. They will not give it up so that we can survive. That is not human  
nature."

The youth smiled a small, sad smile. "Let us talk."

   


* * *

Throughout the afternoon, Arac began to suspect he was being stalked.

Among preparing soldiers, he'd catch the glimpse of blond hair, or soft blue  
clothes, a colour not usually seen on _his_ soldiers. But when he turned to  
look, the figure would be gone. And he'd go on his way and his duty, arguing  
tactics with his subcommanders, and would suddenly hear bells over the sound of  
men and women arming themselves.

It happened again just as he was handing his orders to a high-ranking female  
subcommander. She had finished her daily exercises and was pulling on her  
clothing which was a bit of a pity, really, for naked one could see her  
exquisite musculature while clothed she seemed like any other woman.

She was nodding, listening, and he saw a blue-clad blond figure out of the  
corner of his eye, but when he turned, the figure was gone again. Ani shook her  
head at him and told him to do something about his pre-battle nerves, leaving  
him to protest his innocence.

He retreated to his tent when night fell and lay there with his sword under  
the covers, breathing quietly, eyes closed.

Sure enough, after not too long he heard the sound of bells. He felt someone  
come close and swung with his sword.

"Sorry," a male voice said. "I rather have to concentrate for  
you to touch me."

Arac struck again at where he knew the voice was coming from and again, hit  
nothing. Cursing, he rolled and lit his lantern.

Kneeling by his bedroll was a man, with beautiful gold skin and blond hair  
falling straight to his chin. He was wearing a blue half-cloak that came over  
his shoulders down to just below his pectoral muscles, and loose blue pants  
belted with a girdle. Both the hem of the cloak and the girdle were embroidered  
with flat coins that rang like bells as the man moved.

"Who are you?" Arac asked shortly.

"A dream. A hope. Does it matter? I'm here."

"What do you want?"

"What do you want?"

He rubbed his forehead and examined the man again. The garments were vaguely  
Babylonian in style. "You're foreign."

That seemed amusing to the intruder. "I was, yes."

Trying the word out, Arac said, "A ghost."

"Well." A deliberating pause. "I am dead, at least."

Ah. Arac knew he shouldn't have neglected to put his wineglass constantly on  
his left side. It had been said to cause the dead to appear, though he'd never  
had that trouble before.

"How can I appease you?" he asked carefully, which seemed to amuse  
his visitor more.

"Can I dance for you?"

That seemed innocuous enough and didn't involve any sacrifice of small  
children. He nodded, tentatively.

Arac had seen prostitutes dance before.

This was no common whore's dance.

The ghost's shoulder-garment jingled as he raised his arms slightly out to  
his side and seemed to listen for a moment.

Shoulders shifted without imput from the waist and again, that jingling.

Arms flung out and the body was in movement.

It was hard, Arac found, to track where arms were at a given moment. They  
seemed to catch the reflection of the lantern flame and shine as the ghost span,  
leaving trails of flame behind.

It wasn't bells, but it sounded like it, like the ringing of a chorus, his  
dance producing the music he was dancing to. A paradox in motion.

The shoulder-garment would spin up and flash chest for a moment while legs  
and arms wove patterns in the air, while a hip would move and change the entire  
alignment of the body, gold flashing on muscles as they moved, dancing too.

And those loose blue pants would show, briefly, a thigh pressed here, calf  
there, buttock, and, Great Tinia, an erection and whatever reason he could not  
be touched, this could not be a dead man and be so full of life.

And the music rang, rang, and stopped.

The ghost -- man, ghost, it did not matter, stopped, standing so close to  
Arac that they might well be touching. The spirit looked down at Arac with blue  
eyes that seemed to glow with an inner light.

Arac licked his lips, found his body burning, his breath short.

A brilliant smile, and the spirit knelt to cup Arac's face in his hands and  
he could feel it, it was warm.

"How did you do that?" he asked, and his voice wasn't louder than a  
whisper though he tried to make it be.

Eyelashes lowered with modesty. "It is a gift from Inanna."

Yes, he'd been right, Babylonian. "Our goddess of that kind is  
Turan."

The spirit smiled peacefully. "They're the same thing."

   


* * *

Uriel waited.

Night fell, after a while. It was cooler, though not yet cold. He watched the  
stars; they were like a sea.

Cold, though, in more ways than the wind. A broad plain, between two armies.

He pulled his knees to his chest, for warmth.

After a while, Cassiel came over from the Latin side. He took a look at Uriel  
and sat too, also looking up at the stars.

"And?"

"And he's agreed to talk with the Etruscan general if the Etruscan's  
willing to talk to him."

Uriel was silent. He wanted to say "I hope Miniel can do it, then,"

but that wasn't fair. It really wasn't fair that Miniel become a whore again for  
this. It was too expensive for the exam.

"Do you think it's okay?" Cassiel asked finally.

Uriel almost turned and snapped something about whose fault it would be if  
Miniel weren't, but then he saw Cassiel's face. Young. Sometimes Uriel forgot  
how young Cassiel was. He was young and tired and near tears.

Carefully, Uriel put his arm around Cassiel and tugged his roommate close,  
tucking Cassiel's head into the crook of his neck. "He'll be fine,"  
Uriel said finally. "If anyone's good at being fine, Miniel is."

   


* * *

Cassiel stayed like that for a while, trying not to cry, shivering. He was  
tired, tired. He didn't dare sleep. This was scary. It was very scary.

After a while, Uriel gently pushed him off his shoulder and rose, looking up  
at the sky another moment. "Well," Uriel said, "I'd better get  
busy.

Cassiel shivered and pulled his knees up to his chest, unconciously mirroring  
Uriel's earlier pose. "Busy? Doing what?"

"Wait and see. Let it be grand melodrama if it has to be. Melodrama's  
effective for a reason."

Still shivering, too tired to move, Cassiel watched Uriel head off into Roma.  
Within the hour, Uriel was back with an armful of cloth and poles. Without  
stopping to talk, Uriel headed off into the Etruscan city.

It was very nearly dawn when he got back and dumped another armful.  
"Well?" Uriel asked with a forced cheerfulness. "Help me?

Cassiel stared at it, and slowly, comprehension dawned.

   


* * *

Miniel rolled over and murmured, "What's your name?"

"Arac," the Etruscan general said, reaching out to touch Miniel's  
cheek. His hand passed through.

"Arac," Miniel said, and smiled. "It's almost dawn. Soon, I  
must go."

Fist clenching on air, Arac said, "Why?"

"Why go?"

"Why all this?"

Miniel rolled onto his back and pretended to think of it, for all that he'd  
had an answer ready, had held onto the answer the whole time. Had made love to  
that answer.

"Because," he said, "There is love in all things, living,  
dead, in different cultures. In different gods. Because when you pare it down,  
it's all the same thing. I have the gift of a goddess, but whose goddess? Or god  
for that matter? I am dead, yet I have life. Can you deny that?"

Arac shook his head.

"Today you go to war with a people struggling to live, to become a  
culture of their own. And why?"

"Trade," Arac said promptly.

"And _why_?" Miniel insisted. "Why not a truce? Why not  
anything? Instead, is there to be death in the place of life?"

Arac was silent.

"Go at noon," Miniel murmured. "It has been forseen that the  
Latin general will try one last time to make a peace treaty.

"I see," Arac said, voice guarded.

It hurt, and Miniel rose and pulled on clothing. "The sun is rising. I  
must go."

"Will I ever see you again?" Arac asked.

Miniel smiled, and he knew it was twisted with sadness, in a way, because he  
couldn't give an answer. "Life is unpredictable," he said finally.

"Let me see you again," Arac said, and Miniel closed his eyes in  
pain and allowed himself to become invisible.

He watched as Arac rose and paced the tent, checking, then sat down and put  
his head in his hands and sighed.

Miniel walked out through the tent wall and towards the battlefield.

   


* * *

It was noon.

The tent had been a matter of confusion to both camps, since neither had  
known where it had come from, a tent for negotiation with material from both  
camps. The Etruscans, always superstitious, had declared it a miracle and the  
Latins were oddly tightlipped about the whole thing.

Gaius Bibulus and Arac had secluded themselves in there an hour earlier.  
After some debate about which of them was best to listen in, Cassiel had snuck  
after as he was less awkward at mindspeech than Uriel and besides, he'd wanted  
to give Uriel and Miniel a chance to reassure each other.

One arm tight around Miniel, Uriel watched the armies stirring uncomfortably,  
lined up ready for battle, for a general to return and give the call, or worse,  
to not return.

Uriel could remember that horrible anticipation of waiting to die. This  
wasn't quite as bad, but there were similarities.

Finally, the generals stepped out of the tent, followed by Cassiel who only  
Uriel and Miniel could see.

The two generals looked out at their armies, and Arac raised a hand.

The armies stirred.

Someone in the Etruscan army drew his sword and the sunlight glinted off of  
it before the clouds rolled in and covered the sun.

Time seemed to slow for a moment as the armies drew breath, ready to charge  
at that outrage, that break of the fragile peace.

Uriel felt despair well up. So this is where it all fell apart. Where it all  
ceased to matter. Where they'd fought so much and tried so hard and it wouldn't  
matter.

People who didn't have to die would die.

The grass would be watered with blood yet again, as grass always was.

Friend would betray friend to save their own hide, the stench of intestines  
would roil in the air. He could remember the crash of battle. Crash. The sound  
of sword on sword.

It shouldn't be happening now! Not when they tried so hard!

It wasn't _fair_!

Something welled up inside him, like bloodlust of the old days, like the  
entire to rip the very stream of life apart with his fingernails, let blood rush  
over his face. He pushed Miniel away, nearly afraid of himself, determined to  
not destroy his friend at least, because that was what was inside him,  
destruction.

Miniel hit the dry grass, and Uriel tossed his head back and screamed.

Lightning crashed down and hit the man with his sword drawn. A half-scream  
and the scent of burned flesh and hair, and there was nothing left, really,  
nothing worth speaking of.

It was a perfect hit. The people on either side hadn't even been singed.

Time resumed its pace. There was a rushing noise, the sound of both armies  
releasing their breath at once.

The generals, frozen in spot, glanced at each other once and then returned to  
their armies.

Uriel watched, numb, as the armies both withdrew to their own cities.

He stared up at the clouds that had gathered and caught the first drop of  
rain on his cheek.

   


* * *

Cassiel had never thought that it would be so blessedly wonderful to come  
home.

They'd gotten back and taken one look at their three bunks, one look at each  
other, and just climbed into the same bed, huddled together as if they were  
still cold, a little wet yet from the rain that had rushed down to soak the  
grass.

Curled on Uriel's far side, Cassiel was quietly telling the events that had  
happened in the tent. It was more a summary than anything, though; he wasn't up  
to more and he doubted the others were, either. "...it's a fairly unusual  
arrangement, but brilliant, really. The Latins will still technically own the  
city of Roma, but the Etruscans will rule from behind the scenes. The Latins  
will remain "Romans", nobody will die, and the Etruscans will have  
their trading route."

"Genius," Miniel said, ruffling Uriel's hair with one hand. Uriel  
made an exhausted protesting noise.

They were silent a moment, cuddled together like a litter of puppies.

"And when," Miniel asked, "do we find out how we did?"

"A month, you know that. We had six months, and everything was over in  
five."

Miniel made a face. Cassiel would have laughed if he weren't so tired.  
"It doesn't matter, Miniel. Can anybody doubt how we did?"

Uriel murmured something that sounded vaguely like, "He's got a  
point."

After a wordless agreement, Miniel said, "Cass?"

"Yeah?" He stretched his arm over Uriel to pet Miniel's hair.

"You know, we've gotten a bit of a reputation. I believe I heard Raphael  
call us the Terrible Trio last week."

Cassiel giggled exhaustedly. Uriel gave a snort.

"You know what else?"

Cassiel KNEW he was going to start laughing soon and wouldn't be able to  
stop. "What?" he said, giggly.

"We got an entire month to celebrate and, you know, live up to that  
title. The baths were only the _start_."

Cassiel attempted to bite laughter back, but it was no good, and he couldn't  
stop laughing even when Uriel rolled over in protest and muffled him with a  
pillow.

   


* * *

After a week, Miniel found out that the others had given their borrowed Keys  
back. He hesitated, then went to Raphael.

"My lord Raphael?"

Raphael smiled at him fondly. "Yes?"

"Can I have the Key for a few more hours yet? There's something I need  
to do."

Raphael looked at him and smiled. "Yes," he said.

He keyed down in that plain, oddly enough on the patch of burned ground. It  
took him some time, now that the Etruscans were no longer in military quarters,  
but he did eventually find out where to go.

He waited, looking up at the window, and sure enough, Arac appeared at the  
window after a while.

Miniel smiled and flickered into visibility.

Arac opened his mouth, but Miniel just waved his hand in a salute before  
vanishing again.

He did, however, wait to see Arac smile before he headed back.

"Did it go well?" Raphael asked.

"Yes, my lord," Miniel said, and smiled.

"Good," Raphael said. "You're just in time to bail your  
roommates out."

Miniel hesitated. "...bail?"

"Yes. Bail. And while you're at it, you can help them get those  
undergarments down from the Tower."

   


* * *

There was a graduation ceremony this year. There wasn't every year. Uriel had  
heard that in emergency circumstances, the gift was transferred to the  
graduating students immediately, without necessarily anyone around to see. And  
other years, there were no graduates.

There were five this year, and the three of them were included.

They stood proudly, waiting. Miniel crossed first and took the scroll. Uriel  
watched as his friend's back arched and wings pulled themselves free, scattering  
feathers under the watchful eyes of the teachers, administration, and gathered  
students. Clearly aware of his audience, Miniel tossed his hair and flared his  
wings before sashaying off. Uriel had no idea how Miniel had learned balance so  
soon.

Cassiel was next, and he was trembling, wide-eyed as he crossed. When his  
wings emerged, he began to cry, covering his face with his small hands so that  
he crumpled the paper. Uriel thought he heard Raphael murmur,  
"Appropriate." Cassiel didn't seem to be able to take a step, so  
Miniel came back and guided Cass slowly to the far side of the stage.

Uriel took a deep breath and climbed the steps. He didn't look at the  
students as he went but at the staff and froze, actually stumbling a little,  
when he got a good look at exactly who stepped forward to hand Uriel his scroll.

The Metatron, in elabourate robes that scintillated colour as he walked, hair  
down, a queen's ransom in jewels in his ears.

Uriel wondered, briefly, if he should run, but silver eyes met his with  
amusement rather than outrage, and, suddenly relaxed, he took the Metatron's  
hand and shook it, unable to stop himself from doing something ludicrous,  
really, and then sweet burning like pain in his back and his wings shook free.

He'd been right about the balance but somehow he made it across the stage.

Miniel and Cassiel were looking at their scrolls, now that Cassiel had dried  
his tears, and Miniel's eyebrow winged. "Apparently, I'm the Angel of  
Lust," he said.

Mimicking Raphael's tone, Uriel said, "Appropriate."

"Angel of Tears," Cassiel said, and laughed a little.

Uriel unrolled his and froze for a moment at the curly writing there that  
denoted his position. "Angel of Wrath," he said, or he thought he  
said. He couldn't hear his voice.

They looked at him with concern and he managed to pull himself together  
again, let the scroll roll up, and smiled at them. "We're here," he  
said.

Raphael stepped forward when the others had passed.  
"Traditionally," he said, "I'm supposed to make a speech now. But  
when all's over, really, the results speak for themselves. Here they are now;  
just imagine how far they'll have gone tomorrow."

Applause, thunderous, though whether for the sentiment or the shortness of  
Raphael's address, Uriel wasn't sure.

One of the other graduates had thrown his arms in the air, and the fifth was  
crying and laughing at the same time.

Uriel looked at his roommates and tugged them near. "Wanna see if three  
people can tongue-kiss at the same time?" he suggested.

They smiled, and did.

 


	22. Mission

Normally, Gabriel just assigned them on a mission by sliding the Book of the  
Dead over to them, not even looking up from his paperwork. Today, though, he was  
standing in front of his desk, the Book open in his hands, watching the names  
shift and change.

Azrael shared a glance with Suriel. It wasn't a good sign.

"I have for you," Gabriel murmured, "a variation on an old  
theme." He passed the Book over.

With the ease of long practice, Azrael's eyes found the next starred entry.  
Only a few were starred -- most souls could find their own way, after all. Not  
all people were incapable of adapting to the shock of death. But this starred  
entry had another star under it -- an unnamed person, indented.

Suspecting already, he checked the details of how the named woman would die.

Her lover had found out she was pregnant and left. In despair, she was going  
to kill herself.

He'd seen enough, and passed the Book to Suriel.

"Shitty situation," Azrael said. "But, Gabriel, normally Suri  
just takes these assignments. Not that I mind helping him, but what gives?"

"Well," Gabriel harrumphed. "She knew her lover was cheating  
and prayed so fervently for a child -- to bind them together -- that Ardouisur  
heard her prayer and answered it. That automatically makes this a special  
circumstance. And..." he hesitated, then said firmly, "I want you to  
take Cherior to observe."

Azrael shook his head at once. "The kid's not ready."

"Do you know what he's been saying to his friends, Azrael? That your  
Scythe is the 'coolest' thing in existence. That he'd do anything to have its  
power in his hands. That he can't wait to graduate and get his own Scythe."  
Ancient blue eyes pinned Azrael. "You are taking your protégé on this  
mission. That is an order."

 

* * *

Cherior would rather have bit his own tongue off than admit that cuddling  
with Devecia was almost as good as the sex itself, except in a different manner.

There was something... wonderful about this, about just laying tangled  
together, the scent of Devecia mixed with the scent of the flowers they'd  
crushed in a spectacular manner not too long before. Ardouisur would have their  
hides, but at the moment, Cherior could care less.

It was so wonderful that sometimes, he couldn't believe that it was meant for  
him. That this boy, long limbs and tangled green hair -- was his.

"You are so fucking beautiful," he whispered, and Devecia's hazel  
eyes opened. "So beautiful."

And then Devecia's beaming smile froze and his gorgeous leaf-toned eyes  
focused behind Cherior and there was a look on his face that Cherior usually  
associated with highway-bound rabbits.

Irritated, Cherior turned over, ready to give the person interrupting a piece  
of his mind.

Azrael's eyebrow raised and black eyes made a slow travel up both their  
bodies. "Devecia, isn't it?" the Angel of Death asked mildly and  
Devecia nodded, quickly. Cherior could feel him swallow.

"Azrael...sama," Cherior growled, almost forgetting to add the  
'sama'. Not quite that suicidal.

"We're borrowing Cherior for a bit," Azrael said frankly, still  
addressing Devecia. "We'll bring him back sometime tonight."

Devecia nodded again, and said nothing. Azrael grinned, and Cherior just KNEW  
that the dark-haired angel was approving of Devecia's 'respect'. Or, Cherior  
thought angrily, terror. "Azrael-sama, I'm BUS--"

"Get your pants on, kid," Azrael said, a touch of irritation  
showing. "I don't have all day."

Fuck it all. Cherior snatched his pants, growling at everything.

Devecia hid a smile, and Azrael grinned at that, too.

It was just NOT his fucking day.

 

* * *

Azrael KNEW what the kid's response would be when they got to where they were  
meeting Suriel. He just KNEW it and had prepared himself and had even warned  
Suri about what would happen when Cherior's eyes fell on the picnic basket  
clutched in Suri's beautiful long fingers--

"THE FUCK?! You took me away to... to go on a PICNIC?!"

Azrael marked a point on an invisible scoreboard where Cherior couldn't see,  
drawing a smile from Suriel.

"It's Suri's food," Azrael said mildly as Cherior spun to look at  
him. "You trying to tell me that it isn't worth it for Suriel's  
cooking?"

"The food could be cooked by the Morning Star as far as I--"

One step, and Azrael was close enough to cuff the kid upside the head, which  
he did, being careful to pull his blow so the red-haired boy only stumbled a  
little. "Don't talk about Suriel's cooking like that. Besides, it's not  
exactly a picnic."

"What--"

He put his hands on Cherior's shoulders, firmly, not hard enough to hurt but  
not letting the kid go, either. "Hold on, kid. We're heading to  
Earth."

   


* * *

Cherior's head gurgled and his stomach swam. It took him a moment to find the  
ground, clutching at his nearest support -- Azrael, of course, who surprisingly  
didn't shake him off. "Wha--"

"It's because you're just a student," Suriel explained cheerfully,  
spreading out a blanket on the hillside. "You don't have your own key so  
you have to ride on our power. Have something to eat, that's supposed to  
help."

Although the last thing on Cherior's mind at that moment was food, the scent  
kicked straight to his stomach and the nausea vanished, at any rate.

And it was laid out and THERE, so Cherior began to eat.

"Slow down," Azrael muttered. "Or you'll puke."

Cherior glared over his sandwich, then took a huge bite, just to spite them  
both. It would have been a more effective gesture if the sandwich weren't so  
good.

Finally full, Cherior let himself fall back, let the Earth's sun shine down  
on him. He couldn't feel the warmth. He couldn't smell the sweet scent of the  
grass he knew he should be smelling. It seemed like sight was really the only  
sense left to him, where this world was concerned.

That hurt, a little. "So, honestly, Azrael-sama. What AM I doing here,  
anyway?"

"You're joining us on a mission," Suriel said, softly.

"And we don't have much time." Azrael's voice was sharp, very sharp  
in comparison. "So you'd better digest quickly because we have to get going  
in five."

Cherior flexed, flipped to his feet. Showing off, and he knew it, and it  
STILL didn't seem fair when neither of them seemed to notice. "I'm ready  
now," he muttered.

They still weren't paying attention. "Azrael," Suriel was  
murmuring. "Be kind, considering..."

Considering what? It didn't matter. "So if we're on a mission, then why  
the picnic thing in the first place?" He had to be heard. He was here. He  
wasn't invisible, or--

Azrael spun, gripped Cherior's chin between two fingers. "Because this  
world should be beautiful. No matter what else you see, you have to see the  
beauty."

   


* * *

The startlement/anger/hurt in Cherior's gaze was burning and Azrael jerked  
away, reaching instead for the kid's hand. "Now come ON. We have to get  
there in time." He set off quickly, Suriel ghosting along beside them. The  
kid was cursing as they went and Azrael realized he might be leaving bruises on  
the kid's wrist.

He didn't loosen his grip until they were at the house, walking through the  
front door, in. Suriel was giving him a LOOK, but he could taste the blood in  
the air already, taste it, and the kid was whining. He wanted to smack the boy,  
tell him to LOOK: This is what it is. This is what my Scythe will do. But they  
weren't there yet and it wasn't enough yet. It wouldn't get the point across.

And they were closer now, and they could hear her moaning, because she'd  
fucked the act up, she'd fucked it up and then they were there and she was lying  
there in an expanding, sickly thin pool of red, her large belly dragging in it.

She was gasping for air.

And that's when the kid stopped whining, thankfully, because Azrael couldn't  
have taken that then, and he let himself drop Cherior's hand, summoned his  
Scythe, closed a bruising grip on that instead.

Bruising. Breaking.

Suriel was already by the woman, not completely ignoring her, but holding his  
hands over her belly, searching for the best way to remove the child. Waiting  
for the moment it actually died.

"Who--" she was gasping. "Who are--" Of course she could  
see him, she was that close now. He was probably all she could see.

Azrael stepped forward, feet squelching into the blood, as physically there  
as he'd ever be as the blood bubbled between his toes, caught in the grainy  
carpet, caught in this world.

"Make it... end," she whispered, reaching towards him.  
"Please..."

And he sat to wait for her heart to slowly stop. She couldn't touch him. He  
was untouchable.

"Please." And then, weakly, "It wasn't my fault. It was his  
fault."

He shrugged, indicated the woman. "Whatever. You're still dying."

"It wasn't my fault," she insisted, light fading from her eyes  
"My... only fault... was... that he ... didn't love me enough..."

And she died, so he swung down hard and ripped her free, tore her apart, let  
it all come home as he gathered the broken remains to him, tucked it away to  
send off later to wherever it would go. Ignoring it otherwise, because it wasn't  
important enough to pay attention to past the point it was ripped away.

And his focus expanded again, finally, and he realized Cherior was screaming.

Was somewhere in the room, screaming, and he turned and saw Suriel, unborn  
child cradled in one arm as he tried to soothe Cherior, touching the boy's face  
and chest with his own bloodied hands. "Shh," Suriel was saying.

"Hush, child, it's okay, I've got you."

But Cherior wasn't listening, Cherior was screaming. And screaming. And  
screaming.

And Azrael let his Scythe fall, vanish, and then he was over there too,  
unsure of what to do, even when Suriel looked up at him and mouthed, "Hold  
him."

And even then, he was unable to do anything but touch the vibrant red hair  
and say. "It's over. It's all right. It's over."

   


* * *

But it wasn't over. He was there again.

And it hurt. He was hurting so much, in so many ways.

It wasn't fair it wasn't fair itwasn'tfair.

He hadn't DONE anything. If it were punishment, he could accept it. But.

And God, it had been like the fucking movies, hadn't it? Staying late after  
school, late enough to smoke three cigarettes before he'd gone home, taking his  
time even then because they'd told him to be home early so they could spend time  
as a family, but, fuck, why was he supposed to want to be home when _they_

were there? They wouldn't even _be_ there if it hadn't been a government  
holiday so their jobs were cancelled for the day and they couldn't avoid each  
other. Why did _he_ have to be forced to listen to their arguments and  
their accusations and be pulled into the middle of it like he always was? He  
wanted to stay away forever, forever, but that was futile too, it was all  
totally hopeless.

And the door had swung open and that was the movie part, his schoolbag  
falling from numb fingers as he saw all that fucking blood. So much blood, a  
human body shouldn't be able to hold that much blood but it hadn't, had it? Two  
bodies had, and they were still alive but they didn't seem to see that he was  
there as he screamed, a stupidly girlish sound and then the bullet hit him in  
the chest and he fell back against the couch, in too much pain to scream.

He'd felt his bone shatter when the bullet had hit his chest and even  
breathing was like being stabbed again and again and he couldn't move, death lay  
that way, though he was gonna die anyway wasn't he? He was gonna die and his  
parents could _see_ him, they were still alive, but they were just mumbling  
at themselves "Oh God, oh God" or more incoherent things and so he  
tried, voice thin with pain, "Mom?" but she didn't answer, just said

"Oh God oh God."

"Dad?" But they were too turned inward and so he shuddered and  
tried to breathe or stop breathing, he wasn't sure which.

"Cherior?" someone was calling, but that wasn't right, his name was  
Charles, wasn't it, fucking parents had to give him a name like 'Charles' and  
now he was dying and they were dying and they'd have to write 'Charles' on his  
gravestone, oh God...

   


* * *

Azrael shook his head as the girl bent over Cherior again, her red hair  
mingling with his. "Cherior? Cherior?"

No change, of course. Cherior's eyes continued to track on things that  
weren't there, crying, and shaking, occasionally mumbling something that made no  
sense and was probably considered horrifying by most people.

He listened.

"Please mom, look at me, look at me, it hurts..."

No. No, that's not true. It _was_ horrifying.

Afriel put her head down on the pillow beside Cherior and cried. Azrael had  
seen the friendship develop between them -- both kids who had lost everything,  
unlike Devecia whose death had been relatively peaceful, after all. It was no  
wonder that, however much the kid loved Devecia, he still needed someone like  
Afriel as well.

Devecia looked up, pale-faced, from where he was sitting on a hard chair,  
they'd had to drag another in to accommodate Suriel and Azrael and the two kids.  
"Can't you do something?" Devecia said, voice cracking as he looked at  
Azrael.

"Don't ask them," Afriel sobbed. "Don't ask them, this is  
their fault."

_Their fault._

Azrael rose and, ignoring the inquiring noise from Suriel, strode out of the  
room.

"Do you have an appointment?" one of the secretaries was stupid  
enough to ask and was flung into a wall. Not hard, of course, but he'd  
definitely be feeling it later.

"Azrael," Gabriel began before Azrael's fist impacted with his  
cheek.

Gabriel picked himself off the floor in shock. "Azrael, have you gone _insane_?!"

He seemed to be having a little trouble standing. Azrael helped by lifting  
Gabriel by his shirt front and slamming him back against the fucking new bay  
windows. "Damn you, Gabriel," he growled. "My conscience was  
guilty enough before your fucking clever plan."

"I don't--"

"Then SEE."

Azrael dragged Gabriel past his shocked secretaries by his tie, hooking two  
fingers under it so the Administrator wouldn't be strangled. He counted rooms,  
ignoring Gabriel's cursing and threats, until he found the right hospital room  
and shoved Gabriel into it.

Everybody looked up. Suriel wisely held the children out of Azrael's range.

Gabriel dug his feet in and Azrael gave him a hard shove, taking him closer  
to the bed.

Cherior's eyes still weren't tracking yet, apparently fascinated with  
something on the ceiling, following a swaying motion. "can taste... my  
blood...mom... please... I need..."

Azrael watched Gabriel stare down at the kid, then snap his fingers in front  
of Cherior's face.

Cherior sat bolt upright, staring around at everyone, panting as if he'd just  
had a long nightmare.

Gabriel brushed past Azrael on the way out. Azrael ignored him.

The kid stared and stared until, hopeful, Devecia took a step towards him.  
"Cherior?"

Without warning, Cherior buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

   


* * *

It had seemed like such a good idea. However much it'd hurt, Azrael had saved  
him. What better return than to do the same for other people?

And god, the prestige and power. Better than a new motorcycle, better than  
smoking pot out back with his friends, or at least the people who followed him.  
Better than fucking Jenny in the backseat of the car. Azrael's scythe had seemed  
so much better and yet, somehow, the same.

He'd been wrong, he'd been wrong. There was no salvation there. No salvation  
in the blood, the puke, or Jenny's fucking back seat. It was all the same,  
nothing actions that just lead to more pain.

To death, even when he'd died he hadn't understood death so much.

"Cherior?" Devecia asked again and he opened eyes that were blurry  
with tears, dammit, tears where anybody could see, and Devecia was there, and  
Afriel.

"I can't do this," he said, voice thick. "I just can't do  
this.

   


* * *

Azrael paced up and down the halls, up and down. Some of the walls had chips  
in them from where he kicked them with his steel-toed boots.

Every so often -- hours, days, who knew? -- Afriel would stand outside the  
door and watch him. Most people were avoiding this part of the hospital now.  
Sometimes Suriel would bring him food.

He was waiting.

Afriel ducked out of the hospital room and waited until he stopped in front  
of her. "Well?"

She shook her head, pale and with dark circles under her eyes -- so sharply  
lined, like most redheads, they showed bruises well. "He won't get out of  
bed."

"Fuck," Azrael pronounced clearly, and kicked another chunk out of  
the walls.

Her eyes narrowed. "You might not want to do that."

"Oh?" Azrael felt his lips twist in a sneer and tried to control  
the response.

"Yes. He thinks you're angry at him."

Azrael cursed eloquently, realized that that probably wasn't helping either,  
and with his wings safely tucked away, he slid down the wall to sit with his  
knees bent.

He hadn't quite lost enough dignity to ask her, just some student, what to  
do.

At least he knew up to a certain point what he wanted to do, but he had to  
wait. If he waited long enough and Gabriel _didn't_ show up again, there  
was going to be blood shed.

"You have to do something!" Afriel said, voice breaking. "He's  
just not moving! Devecia's almost passing out, and--"

Azrael didn't move, and Afriel cursed. "I'm going to get Mikael,"  
she informed Azrael.

He felt a laugh rising like a bubble from the depths. "Mikael,  
Mikael," he mocked. "And what can the kid do here, huh? Oh, go, run to  
safety, run."

She stared at him, he could feel it burning through his hair.

He sighed, and relented, unable to hold his mockery of her for long.  
"Oh, if you're to run to anyone, run to Gabriel. It's his fault."

"Not yours?" She asked, tongue sharp.

Azrael had hissed at her before he could stop himself, and watched her  
retreating back.

He sighed, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He pushed himself up with  
three fingers and stood for a moment, uncertain, before shouldering his way into  
the room, thumbs stuck in his pockets, nonchalant.

   


* * *

Cherior watched Devecia jerk awake, his head rising from his chest as he  
turned to look at the door.

Unlike his lover, Cherior didn't turn, but lay still on his side, considering  
closing his eyes until the visitor went away.

"Hey," Azrael said gruffly, somewhere over and to his left. Cherior  
closed his eyes.

"Azrael-sama," he heard Devecia stumble. "Cherior isn't  
feeling too good right now, so maybe--"

"Fuck that," Azrael said.

A hand came down on Cherior's shoulder and he shrugged if off angrily.

"Look, Cherior..."

He rolled over and yes, there was his mentor, sitting on the bed with a dark  
expression, hair falling over his shoulders. There was no blood on the hand that  
had lifted from Cherior's shoulder.

"What are you going to tell me, Azrael?" Cherior asked, dropping  
the suffix purposefully, amazed to find his voice present if not steady.  
"Are you going to tell me that it gets better with time?"

He tracked Azrael's face, watched emotions travel across it, but only a  
little. Surface thoughts. _Deeper, was there anything deeper? Or is Azrael  
entirely shallow?_

"Well, actually," Azrael said, "it _does_\--"

Shit, he was tensing up, he could feel himself tense up. "Then may I  
never have to do that again. Being okay with _that_ is more of a fucking  
murder than the actual act."

Startlement, fleeting. "It's _not_ murder. It's Most Holy's  
will..."

Cherior laughed. He didn't want to but it rose hysterically, sore,  
throat-wrenching noises. "Get the fuck out of my room, Azrael."

"Cherior--" Azrael was angry now, and Cherior felt his own anger  
rise.

"I said get the FUCK out of my ROOM!"

A swirl of black and Azrael was gone. Cherior panted and sank back into the  
cushions.

Another hand on his shoulder, small, long fingered. Cherior grabbed it and  
pulled Devecia close, burying his face in Devecia's shoulder so that he could  
pretend he wasn't crying again.

   


* * *

Azrael kicked a whole brick out of the wall, watched it sail down the hall  
before hitting ground and shattering. "Fuck it," he hissed aloud.  
"He just doesn't understand. Fuck."

"Doesn't understand what, Az?"

Raphael, down the hall. He looked up, and the fucking girl _had_ gone  
and got her precious Mikael. Raphael was trailing behind them like the lovesick  
puppy he was. _Fuck them ALL._

Mikael opened his mouth, then looked as if he didn't know what to say. An  
awkward silence hung in the air.

"_Yes_?" Azrael said, pointedly.

The young teacher snapped his mouth closed and headed into the hospital room.  
_Fuck HIM too._

Raphael lingered, leaned against the wall across from Azrael. "Well,  
someone's in a bad mood."

"Fuck off, Raphael," he warned. "You need at least one to  
fly."

Eyebrows shot up and Raphael tucked his wing behind him. "Easy, I'm not  
your enemy. What's all this about Gabriel?"

"It's all his fault," Azrael groused. "I _told_ him the  
kid wasn't ready for a mission."

"Oh, I see." Raphael looked sympathetic, and it was about time _someone_  
was. "And he insisted you take the kid anyway."

Azrael nodded tersely. "Exactly. And now apparently I'm evil."

"Of course you aren't," Raphael soothed. "You were just  
following orders."

Azrael tensed again, tossing a smouldering glare Raphael's way. "If you  
dare compare me to the Nazis--"

He shuddered. He could still remember it. They'd lost too many angels of  
death during World War II. Sure, there'd been concentration camps before.  
There'd been war before. But not in this magnitude. No atomic bombs so that so  
many died _all at once_ and the souls clamoured round, drowning them in  
reaching arms, desperate to go from this place, now, from their own shadows  
burned on walls.

Many of the angels of death couldn't handle it, went insane. Most of _those_  
were now in the city.

He could remember the stench, the humans too lost to cry. He never had to  
wait long, but he could never leave. Not because he'd wanted not to, but because  
there was always someone else who needed to be taken.

The Plague had been easier, really. At least there weren't so many all at  
once.

After the camps had finally been released, after the cleanup at Hiroshima and  
Nagasaki was nearly complete, he and Suriel had just held each other for hours,  
before going around to find what was left of the other angels of death.

He could understand how they'd broken, but he hadn't been able to prevent  
revulsion. It was just escape, really, forgetting where their duty lay. Like  
soldiers who injured themselves to be sent home. And then people like himself  
and Suriel, poor Suri who woke screaming in nightmares for years after, oh, then  
people like himself and Suri were hated.

"Just don't," he finished, voice low. "Don't."

"I wasn't," Raphael said, voice thick.

He bared his teeth. "Don't you DARE pity me, Raphael."

"I wouldn't."

Azrael closed his eyes, tilted his head back against the cold of the brick,  
forcing himself to breathe steadily. "Sorry," he muttered eventually,  
dragging up regret. "About the wing thing."

"Forgotten already."

_DAMN it._ Why did Raphael always have to be so loving? Azrael squeezed  
his eyes shut until the threat had passed, the burning had stopped and his chest  
had loosened again.

"And this is going to be my fucking fault again," Azrael said,  
finding refuge in bitterness. "And Gabriel will be absolved, again."

He closed his eyes, and after a moment, Raphael murmured, "Not your  
fault."

"Fuck," Azrael said, and for a moment was horrified at the thought  
that Raphael was going to hug him.

But no, he'd just leaned over to clasp Azrael's upper arm, and that was okay.

   


* * *

Cherior sighed as Afriel came back with Mikael, pushing away from Devecia and  
flopping over into the blankets to surreptitiously wipe his tears.

Devecia murmured a few words to Mikael that Cherior couldn't make out, and,  
he decided, didn't care about.

Eyes clean, he rolled over, saw both Devecia and Afriel look relieved. He  
just prevented himself from rolling his eyes. They both loved the fucking new  
teacher. He couldn't understand, himself, but sucking up to Mikael was something  
he could always count on them for.

After a moment, Mikael took the seat by the bed.

"What?" Cherior said, wishing the angel out of the room. _I want  
to be alone, damn it._

"How are you feeling?" It was asked calmly, professionally,  
different from the Mikael he was used to in class who was still professional but  
a little overwhelmed up there, and Cherior's smart retort died on his lips.

Cherior stammered for a moment and then just said the truth. "Like  
shit."

Mikael nodded thoughtfully. "Then don't do it anymore."

He'd sat up before he'd realized he'd done so. He stared at the perfectly  
calm expression at Mikael's face and tried to dredge up a laugh that wouldn't  
come. "You're joking, right, Mikael-sama?"

The teacher shook his head, then pushed the mass of aqua hair out of his  
eyes. "I'm entirely serious. Most of the teachers here can't remember their  
time as students, but as you have clearly kept in mind, I'm a new teacher."  
Mikael smiled, and Cherior remembered, discomfited, the number of times he'd  
made fun of Mikael for that very reason. "I remember. And just because  
you've had a suggested lifestyle doesn't mean that you have to follow it.  
Particularly now that you've shown a new talent."

It took a moment of thought and Devecia sitting on the bed beside him to  
remind him what that talent was. "Healing? No fucking chance, man, I don't  
have bedside manners. Anyway, everyone's always telling me how desperately new  
angels of death are needed."

Mikael shrugged. "I don't know about that. I just know that if you're  
miserable, it's not the career for you."

Cherior's mind whirled. Blood and death? Or, well, he'd only ever healed  
once, but then there was a peace and contentment there, relief in what he'd  
done, though whether that was because of it being Devecia...

"Just a thought," Mikael murmured. "Can I get you  
anything?"

   


* * *

If Azrael had expected anything when Cherior showed up, it hadn't been a  
request for another chance.

"No fucking way," Azrael said.

Cherior scowled. "What if I want to?"

"You a fucking masochist? I said no fucking WAY, kid."

Cherior was glaring now. "Listen, last time it was just a phrase, you  
know? Pushed a button. I have to see if I can do this."

Azrael grabbed the kid by his shirt, careful not to damage anything.  
"Something's wrong with your mind, kid, not your ears. I said NO."

Cherior shoved and it was all that Azrael could do to not shove back and  
seriously injure him.

"There is NOTHING wrong with my mind, you ass," Cherior growled.

_Fucking __impertinence_, Azrael thought, pissed off. _Should box  
his fucking ears._

Cherior had planted his hands on his hips, legs spread for balance, and  
didn't look like he was moving any time soon. "How the hell can I know if I  
can become an angel of death if I can't handle this? And, hello, how many angels  
of death do you have here right now? Can you fucking afford for me _not_ to  
know this early on?"

"He's got a point," Suriel murmured from where he was sitting and  
tatting, pulling a knot tight in his lace.

"On your head be it," Azrael growled. "And if you have  
problems while we're out there, fuck you. If you get sick again, at least you  
can be sure you're not a fucking murderer, huh?"

From the blankness of the kid's face, he didn't recognize his own words.

_Fuck,_ Azrael thought, succinctly.

But really, he knew, what else could he do? There was only so long that the  
few of them could handle all the souls that needed to be collected. If it were  
too many more years without more angels of death, they were going to start  
losing souls.

And what other choice did he have? He knew what would happen, knew that it'd  
be the same response as before because it had been a classic case. Even _if_  
Cherior graduated to be an angel of death, he wouldn't last.

Better that the kid learn it now, even if it meant he'd fail. At least he'd  
be in the city with his mind mostly intact.

"All right, all right," Azrael said. "I'll talk with Gabriel  
about getting you sent with us again."

   


* * *

Cherior could NOT eat the lunch that Suriel had packed, because he knew he'd  
lose it later if he did.

Well, he hoped he didn't. Really, he'd spent years with this as his only  
hope. He had to try one more time.

Just one more time.

It wouldn't all be as bad as the last one. It couldn't be.

Suriel had gone with them, despite it only being a mission for Azrael, in  
case somebody needed to get Cherior out. Cherior _knew_ that was why Suriel  
was there, but couldn't bring himself to resent it.

Not today, he couldn't resent, today.

"Now, listen," Azrael said, firm. "Gabriel informed us that  
the person we're dealing with is a trained psychic."

Cherior couldn't bite back a laugh. "And you listened to that  
shit?"

He stopped laughing under their cool gazes.

"Well, Cherior," Suriel said in the tone of one attempting tact and  
not quite reaching it, "do you believe in angels? Are psychics that much of  
a stretch?"

He nodded and looked down. He told himself to just drop the subject.

Azrael continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "And I need you to  
stay out of the fucking way. Keep back, behind Suriel. Usually, psychics come  
calmly, but sometimes they don't want to, and they're one of the few who can  
fight back. So stay out of the fucking way, okay? I don't want to have to carry  
you home in two pieces."

He nodded again, sullen, but refusing to snap back _I heard you the first  
time_. The last thing he needed today was a fight with Azrael.

Suriel was packing up the lunch.

"Let's go," Azrael said, and Cherior swallows the lump of sandwich  
that was threatening to come back up, and nodded.

The house was dark when they entered it, and Suriel stepped in front of  
Cherior as they descended the stairs to the basement. Blond hair floated back, a  
bit loose from the braid, to brush Cherior's cheeks.

A young man sat at a desk, coughing blood. Some kind of illness, Cherior  
thought, then wondered how he'd known.

The man glanced over, then stared at them. "Fuck," the man said.

Suriel murmured to Cherior, "He can see us. That's usually how you can  
tell if they're psychic, if you don't know earlier."

"I'm not ready to go," the man said firmly.

Azrael shrugged. "Tough shit."

"You don't understand." the man was rising, shakily brushing blood  
from his lips. "I'm not ready to--" He raised his hand and something  
came from it.

Cherior couldn't tell what it was, blue and rolling like gel in the air, but  
crackling. Azrael cursed and got out of the way, but he and Suriel hadn't had  
time to get out of the stairwell yet.

Suriel's going to dive, Cherior thought analytically, tensing. _I'll have  
half a second to get down before--_

But Suriel didn't move, spread his arms and took the blast for Cherior.

   


* * *

Azrael flipped back onto his feet, not looking back at the stairs. Suriel  
would protect the kid, he knew, and if he hesitated now, the fucking psychic  
might have a chance to get another blast off.

He slid on one knee as he reaped, tearing the soul out of the body, which  
crumpled.

Quickly, he dropped the scythe and lunged, grabbing the soul and pinioning  
it, because the man still wasn't helpless.

_This is why I fucking HATE psychics,_ Azrael thought as the soul  
struggled. He turned and saw Suri on the stairs and bending over him, apparently  
kissing him, was Cherior.

He almost lost his grip on the psychic's soul, and then he saw the blood.

"FUCK." He dragged the struggling soul with him as he went over,  
saw the burns and the blood, and Cherior -- no, not kissing, breathing healing.

Cherior raised his head and Suriel tried to sit up. Cherior pushed Suri back  
down. "Shit, Suriel-sama, don't move yet."

"I'm all right," Suriel murmured. "Thanks."

"You shit!" Cherior shouted at Suriel. "Were you trying to get  
yourself killed?!"

Suriel's lips quirked painfully. "It would take more than that to kill  
me..."

"Just don't move, don't fucking MOVE until I've healed you more!"

Azrael smiled a little at the kid, though his brows were tight at the pain  
Suriel was clearly in. "I agree with the kid, you're not moving yet."

Suriel sighed and lay back again as Cherior worked a little more healing,  
concentrating until he sweated.

Azrael's smile slowly faded. Suriel had been hurt for nothing. Cherior hadn't  
even been able to observe the taking of the soul.

He felt tired, so tired, at the thought that they'd have to do this again.

Eventually, Suriel pushed Cherior lightly away. "Enough, Cherior. Sleep  
will take care of the rest, and you're hurting yourself."

The kid did look tired and drawn, breath coming quickly as if he'd taken some  
of the pain for his own.

"Let's go home," Suriel said.

   


* * *

Cherior hurt.

_What the hell did Suriel have to go and do that for?_

He didn't even _like_ Suriel. Certainly hadn't expected...

Hadn't expected...

_Fuck._ He decided he must still be tired from his little episode  
earlier, because there was no other way he'd be so near tears.

He didn't notice the keying back the way he usually did, was too busy trying  
not to cry. _I'm no fucking kid, whatever Azrael says._ Only a kid would  
cry at something as stupid as that. _Fucking Suriel..._

They were back. Afriel was waiting, ran out to meet them, and he took a few  
steps forward to meet her.

Suriel faltered, apparently tired from keying two people back, and he heard  
Azrael curse.

He turned, saw the psychic's soul sprinting for what it must hope was  
freedom.

He saw Azrael hesitate, torn between taking care of Suriel and chasing the  
soul down and, exhausted, Cherior tensed, started to run because _somebody_  
had to get the soul.

Afriel sped past him, running.

"SHIT," Azrael said. "He'll kill her."

Suriel said, "Go."

All that and then Cherior tripped, hit the dirt, saw Azrael as well head  
past. He cursed, tried to struggle to his feet, so tired his legs were shaking.  
All Suriel's fault, he decided, pissed. _If Afriel dies, it's Suriel's fault._

   


* * *

Azrael pushed off the ground, spreading his wings, because he'd move faster  
that way, if he wasn't too late.

_What a fucking STUPID girl._

He'd been sick of her back when she'd been tormenting Suriel, and she didn't  
seem to be improving much now. Impulsive, headstrong, heading to her own death  
without even giving a fuck.

He still couldn't let her soul get torn up, let her truly die. Not if he had  
a choice.

_SHIT._ She was going to get there before him anyway, because of her  
head start. _Fuck it, what does she think she's--_

Afriel dropped, kicked up.

The soul tangled, hit the metaphorical dirt.

_Okay,_ Az thought. _So the girl can fight. Nice, but psychically--_

And as expected, the psychic twisted as Afriel scrambled to pin him, and  
raised his arms.

They were too close, Azrael couldn't use his scythe without hitting the girl  
too. He had to land and wade in, and by then it might be too late.

Afriel grabbed the soul's hands in her own.

_FUCK, she's doing things all wrong._ Azrael could see it now. Before  
there was a chance of dodging, but now the blast the psychic would unleash would  
be channeled into her body.

He landed, moved towards them purposefully. There might be something left of  
the girl that could be salvaged.

The psychic had paused for a moment, startled. Azrael knew he had to act  
then, but--

Afriel leaned back, overextending the psychic, and then kicked up, quite  
methodically breaking both the soul's arms.

A scream, and the soul went limp.

Azrael stared. _Huh?_

"He's yours," Afriel said, and smiled.

   


* * *

Cherior waited nervously outside Gabriel's office. Afriel sat beside him  
("Because Dev has classes, and he'll kill me if you're left alone.").

So this was it.

He swallowed, throat dry all the way down to his stomach, while Afriel filed  
a nail she'd broken.

One of Gabriel's secretaries cast them a sympathetic glance. Cherior scowled  
back.

"I'm doing the wrong fucking thing," he muttered.

"Ow!" Afriel pulled a strip of nail free and made a face. "My  
nails are ruined. Fuckit."

He waited, and finally, "Gabriel will see you now."

Cherior rose, and Afriel rose too. "You can't go with me," Cherior  
muttered at her. "You dumb fuck?"

"You think you can stop me?"

"Fuck you."

"You wish."

He couldn't bite back a grin, and nodded. "Well, just this once I'll LET  
you."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, like you said, fuck you."

Feeling a bit more relaxed, he headed in and tensed up again. As expected,  
both the Administrator and the Professor were there, as well as Azrael.

"I bet changing majors in university isn't this hard," Afriel  
muttered beside him.

The angels waited for Cherior to talk, gazes heavy and distant.

"I can't be an angel of death," Cherior said.

Gabriel sighed. "Are you sure?"

He managed, barely, to resist rolling his eyes. "Yes, I'm sure. I  
couldn't do it."

Gabriel mouthed what was probably a swear word, but one Cherior didn't know.  
Cherior was impressed.

Raphael was nodding thoughtfully. "Do you have any other plans?"

His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his pants. "I can heal."

"We are looking," Gabriel said, biting each word, "for more  
than a few words. _Keep talking._"

_Shit._ That was a _scary_ man. "Uh. I might not be able to do  
the angel of death thing, but I could, when I graduate as a healer, uh, go with  
them or, I guess, wherever I'm needed, in case someone gets hurt."

_That,_ he thought, _was probably the fucking stupidest sounding thing  
I've ever said in my life._

"WHEN you graduate?" A single of Gabriel's white eyebrows winged  
sardonically.

Cherior winced but held firm. "Yeah. WHEN I graduate."

Still sardonic, Gabriel glanced at Raphael. "What do you think,  
Professor? Ready to take on a student again?"

Cherior felt himself gape, saw them notice, and decided to talk. "Can  
Raphael-sama heal, then?"

"I'm the school healer," Raphael said, smiling. "Not in  
precisely the same way you are, but I could help. Though I _have_ taken my  
necessary quota of students..."

Cherior winced.

"I imagine that in healing, Cherior will be less, ah, 'hands on' then he  
was when in training as an angel of death. So sure, I'll mentor him."

For a moment, Cherior wasn't sure his legs would hold him. He put an arm  
around Afriel in a show of celebration, until he got his legs back. She rolled  
her eyes.

SUCH a relief. He'd thought it was over.

"Of course," Raphael said, "You need to know that you'll still  
be dealing with blood, and sometimes death."

"Yeah," Cherior said. "But this time maybe I can help."

"Well," Gabriel said, sour-faced. "That's all very well and  
good, but you should know, Cherior, how much you are setting us back. We have  
very _few_ angels of death. We have just lost more hope."

He lowered his gaze, fighting an explosion of curses. _What an ass,_ he  
thought.

Afriel spoke up, startling him. "Well, that's what I'm actually here  
for. I mean, moral support is good and all, but this guy doesn't really need  
any."

Cherior stared at her. _The fuck she's on about?_

"I want to be an angel of death," she said.

"I see," Gabriel said, and glanced at Azrael, who nodded.

Azrael made a face. "Yeah, she's got the capability, but she doesn't  
think before she acts, she risks herself unnecessarily, and she's rude."

Gabriel gave a terse smile. "Sounds familiar. Azrael, you'll mentor  
her."

Azrael nodded. "Yes."

Cherior stared. _Was that an order, or an agreement? Fuck, I can't tell._

Gabriel nodded at the students. "It's agreed. You may go."

They both bowed, Afriel refusing to curtsey, and headed out.

"Well?" Afriel said, and posed, much to the amusement of the same  
secretary.

"Fuck," he said. "THANK you."

She laughed. "Oh, don't thank ME, Cherbaby. It's you the students are  
gonna be teasing for being a wuss, you know."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, if I can't say thank you, then I guess all I  
have to say is... fuck you."

"You fuck Dev with that mouth, Cherior? Dirty boy."

   


* * *

Azrael headed out of Gabriel's office and watched the kids walk off.

He'd stopped walking, and Raphael took his elbow and steered him away from  
the secretaries.

"Fuck," Azrael said, and squeezed his eyes shut, stopping again.

"Az?"

Overwhelmed, Azrael turned and punched a wall.

"Easy, Az, you're going to take the school down if you keep hitting  
support walls."

"Fuck OFF, Raphael."

Silence for a moment as Azrael fought to calm his breathing, trying not to  
think, a litany of swearwords going through his mind.

Finally, Raphael put his hand on Azrael's shoulder. "Want to talk about  
it?"

He leaned against the wall and decided yeah, he did.

"It's not fair," he said.

Raphael laughed, but not mockingly, just a little startled noise. "Odd  
words, coming from you. Why's it not fair?"

Azrael gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, breathed. "He gets to choose  
what he wants."

Raphael was quiet a long moment, so long that Azrael opened his eyes to see  
if the other angel was still there.

_And now,_ Azrael thought, almost clinically, _Raphael is going to say  
something sweet and sad and explanatory which should make me feel better but  
will piss me off._

He waited.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Raphael asked.

Relief. Azrael managed not to smile, but just barely. "Yeah," he  
said. "I think you can."

Raphael preened, running a hand through his hair in a remarkable Uriel  
impression. "Oh yeah? You want it?"

"Fuck you," Azrael said, gave up resisting, and laughed.

 


	23. Silence

Heartbeat. Heartbeat.

Omael pulled out the ribbons, backwards, violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow,  
orange, red. They fluttered around him for a moment, traces of colour, perhaps  
traces of a heartbeat. He laid them over the end of his bed, carefully, in  
order.

When let down his hair came to the small of his back, wavy with the memory of  
ribbons.

He took up a hairbrush. It was made of bone, inlaid ivory. It was the only  
one of its kind. His fingers traced over patterns, caressing like a lover's  
body, and then he ducked his head, dragged the brush through his hair.

It smoothed as the brush passed it, then as the brush released it again, the  
gold locks sprang back into their crimped waves. Again. And again.

One hundred strokes for beauty, he'd heard. He stopped at ninety-nine,  
shrugged out of waistcoat and vest and pants and slipped on a nightshirt that  
came to mid-thigh.

At first he lay in the darkened room, the blue of his sea-irises watching a  
darkened ceiling. But the moon was strong tonight, as every night, illuminating  
the ground outside and after a moment, only sound the shifting of cloth on  
cloth, he rose and headed out of his house.

Lilies in his garden. They clothed him for a moment in dying sweet scent and  
he passed out, bare feet silent on cobbles.

He could feel the wind catch in the heavy masses of his hair, billow it out  
around him, even as it caught and ruffled his feathers. Unpleasant, his hair  
loose. When his hair was loose he would wander, his thoughts would wander  
downward or upward, never resting where they were. There was no tight control  
when ribbons lay carefully over the end of his bed, in order.

_I am beautiful_, he thought as his hair billowed around him, and the  
thought made him sick.

He did not stop walking, however. Could not stop. Stopping allowed thoughts  
to catch up to him.

A star fell. He watched it for a moment and continued on, head lowered so  
that all he could see were the cobbles beneath his feet, were his bare legs  
catching the pale light as he stepped, the short night-shirt swirling around  
them. His hair, drifting around him.

He heard the clash of metal on metal and stopped again, realizing he was at  
the edge of a practice arena for the soldiers, and some were out at night,  
playing at war.

He watched the flash of the moon on their swords, like flames. Watched  
feathered bodies shift and dive and pull up short.

"Well, look who's here."

Omael turned his head slowly, saw a couple of soldiers there who had been  
observing the fight. Omael observed them.

Both tall, both muscular. Wings and halos. Sneers. They dirtied heaven. Omael  
turned his head away slowly, turning his flat blue gaze on the war-game.

"We were talking to you, bitch."

A sword cut a little too close, blood sprang up. A muffled curse. The game  
wasn't finished, though, and the soldiers tangled together again in a parody of  
lust.

"Don't you fucking DARE ignore us, Unfaithful."

Unconcerned, Omael slowly turned away from the game of swords and took a step  
away.

"Fucking whore."

Omael's arm was caught and he turned his face back, to get spattered with  
spittle.

He watched the soldier who held him for a moment, then slowly raised his free  
arm and wiped his face with the sleeve.

"Talk to us, you Unfaithful fucker--"

"What's going on here?"

Uriel. The Angel of Wrath had emerged from the barracks. As he stepped close,  
Omael could smell the scent of musk on him. He turned his face away.

"Nothing, Lord Uriel. Go about your business." A command. This  
soldier was not high up in the hierarchy, but he was attempting to command.  
Laughable. A breeze stirred Omael's hair and he tilted his face up to the moon  
again.

"If it's nothing, you'll let him go."

Omael's arm was flung away, sending Omael into a slight stagger. He caught  
himself and turned away, walking off slowly without waiting to see how things  
worked out between Uriel and the soldier.

It didn't matter. His face was cold where he'd been spat on. He let the wind  
dry it, his hair becoming tangles for a moment, and combed his fingers through  
his locks.

"Hey, wait up."

Omael dragged his fingers through his hair again. One hundred strokes for  
beauty.

"Jeez, what's the hurry?" Uriel again. Smiling. "I thought I'd  
walk you back. Just in case. A bit late to be out, dressed like that."

Unconcerned, Omael lowered his gaze to his nightshirt, then raised it again  
to Uriel. "Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh.' Come on, you'll catch a cold."

Omael shrugged a little and continued walking. The cobbles were smooth under  
his feet. He wandered often and had never been cut by a cobble. Not in Heaven.

"Where are you going? This isn't the way to your house."

"I'm walking," Omael murmured, wishing to return to silence.

A disgruntled sigh. "Okay, I'll walk with you."

"Whether I want you or not."

Silence, finally. Then Uriel said, voice lowered, "That's not fair. I'm  
just worried about you."

Omael considered this as the wind slowly blew the scent of spent sex away  
from Uriel. "Oh."

He kept walking, taking a shortcut that would take him back to his house. He  
was no longer alone; there was no point in continuing. And he was beginning to  
take a chill. He folded his wings more tightly around himself.

"That's better," Uriel said, of course he knew where Omael lived.  
Always know where someone who might be Unfaithful lives, they said. Just in  
case.

The lily garden, with its death-sweet scent. Omael paused, knelt in the dirt  
for a moment, and picked a blossom that was starting to fade.

He could feel Uriel stop behind him, and turned, and gave the dying flower to  
Uriel. "It suits you."

Uriel smiled, and Omael sighed as his point was missed.

"Do you want to come in?" he asked mechanically, hoping for Uriel  
to decline the invitation.

"Yes," Uriel murmured.

Omael opened the door with a touch, he never locked it, there was no point.  
Nobody would dare get that close. Uriel followed him in, out of place in the  
delicate workmanship of the hall.

Uriel put the dead flower on a hall table and said, "You're lonely,  
aren't you?"

He suddenly wished he could be outside again, near the moon. But why lie?  
Everyone knew. "Yes."

"Let me help."

Omael didn't protest as Uriel stepped close, slid his hands through Omael's  
unbound hair. Ducked his head.

Lips on lips, moisture, a touch of teeth. Omael's gaze drifted past Uriel to  
the mirror on the wall, blank.

When Uriel let him go he turned and headed for the bedroom. Uriel followed.

His bed sank as he lay on it, sliding his nightshirt over his head to drop it  
beside the bed. Uriel came close, shedding clothing, rolling over, kissing  
Omael's face. "You are so beautiful. Poor sweet Omael, so maligned. So  
beautiful."

Omael gasped, closed his eyes tight as Uriel ducked his head to listen to his  
heart beat, heartbeat.

I must let it happen, Omael thought, I must not get involved. I must.

So perhaps they weren't Omael's moans, when their limbs tangled, wasn't  
Omael's breath catching or limbs reaching out to cling to the tentative, risky  
hold of Uriel's body. Perhaps those weren't Omael's tears.

It was easier to believe that, later.

Or to believe that it had been another body there.

Or...

He cried. Uriel kissed Omael's full lips and licked tears away. Omael could  
feel Uriel spread his blond hair out on the pillow to frame his face. Uriel  
leaned back and smiled at his handiwork, and leaned down to kiss Omael again.

Bliss, hopeful bliss. Omael floated there, hands on Uriel's hips, curled  
against Uriel's body.

"Nobody must know of this," Uriel said, and Omael opened his eyes.

"Why?" he asked, with no inflection whatsoever.

"Because..." Uriel hesitated. "Just because, darling, close  
your eyes now. I'm here with you tonight."

Omael closed his eyes. And tomorrow, silence. Suspicion. Hatred, hatred,  
hatred. Lies through silence, never having to be spoken, silent lies.

Sometime later, Uriel left and Omael lay there curled against fake warmth  
until that too faded with the scent of sex.

He could feel wetness on his face, like spittle.

He sat up in bed with the sound of cloth shifting. The ribbons had fallen  
from the end of the bed with their movement, his and Uriel's. He rose, crouched  
naked and small on the floor and slowly tied them into his hair.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo. Violet. Traces of a heartbeat. He  
rose. He was messy, eyes red, face distraught, he could feel it, but his hair at  
least was in place again.

The bed sheets were disturbed and he stepped out into the hall where the lily  
had been abandoned on the hall table. He picked it up, gently pulled the petals  
off one by one.

Took matches out of the table drawer and returned to the bedroom. Lit one,  
dropped it in the bed. Back out the hall, dropping lit matches as he went. The  
table. Outside, he used his last one on the ivy growing up around the house.

He stood naked as it burned. His braids moved sluggishly on his skin.

Nobody came.

He raised his arms to the heat, tossing his head back. It smelled like  
burning. Ash. Charcoal. There was a crash as part of the roof fell in. A shingle  
fell and left a burn and a cut on Omael's shoulder.

Nobody came, they couldn't help hearing the noise, but nobody came.

Another crash as the second floor gave out. A huge house, all for Omael,  
alone.

Finally people showed up. Raphael, the angels of death, even Gabriel, uptight  
and wearing his pajamas.

They stood and watched as Omael, hands up, naked, orchestrated the fall of  
his house.

Part fell near Omael and Raphael cursed, pulled at Omael's arm where Omael  
was already starting to bruise from earlier. "Omael! You're in danger! Come  
on, move away!"

"This is what I am," Omael said, and pointed. "This is what I  
am."

Silence, silence. "Come away."

"Just let me go," Omael said, and shame, he was crying. "Let  
me go."

"Come away."

"Please, just let me go."

Raphael pulled him away from the house, took him back to the school, cleaned  
him up.

Omael was silent and watched the moon through the window, obscured by rising  
smoke. They were drawing a bit of an audience. Omael ignored them.

"Why?" Raphael asked.

"Has Uriel ever fucked you?"

Raphael glanced at the crowd, and said, "Uh..."

There were murmurs, already. That would have to be enough, this petty  
vengeance, being asked not to tell and telling. "And after, when you roll  
over, who's there with you?"

Raphael lowered his gaze and returned to bandaging his shoulder.

"Answer me, Medicus. When you reach out, who is there?"

Silence, oh, blessed silence.

"Yes," said Omael.

"That's not enough reason," said Raphael.

"How would you know?" Omael asked. "It's what I am. How would  
/you/ know?"

Silence.

 


	24. Red String

Mikael shouldered his way into the Professor's office, hugging an  
armful of papers to his chest and clenching a folder between his teeth. He  
dropped everything onto Raphael's desk, or rather, the little corner he had  
cleared away to work on. He sat down on a chair he had borrowed from an empty  
classroom, preferring its sturdy, simple construction to the too-comfortable  
leather monstrosity that Raphael sat (and often napped) in.

He was going to go insane, he decided. How he was going to plan the symposium  
and get his latest round of exams graded was totally beyond him. And conference  
with his students, not to mention his annual evaluation with Gabriel. And take  
care of all the myriad details of normal life, like laundry and housekeeping and  
dinner.

Perhaps, he concluded, this was what drove people like the Metatron to wear  
costumes consisting entirely of bright pink feathers. Too much to do in too  
little time, and too many heavenly beings who always thought he could do better  
than his absolute best.

At least he had Raphael to split the work with. Everything was easier with a  
partner. He pushed up his sleeves and turned up the laptop. They'd get through  
this week, like they got through every week, and everything would be fine. Just  
fine.

   


* * *

Sophia was first on his list. He invited her to have a seat in his office,  
and she practically bounced into the seat. Mikael smiled at her, genuinely happy  
to see her. Sophia was such a pleasant student. Just the right way to start off  
the day. He shuffled some papers on his desk and cleared his throat. "Well,  
Sophia, it seems we have very little to discuss as far as your academic  
performance goes. Your work thus far has been quite satisfactory – your marks  
in mathematics have been quite solid and I'm impressed by the effort you put  
into the poetry unit." He smiled at her, feeling a measure of pride in her  
progress.

"Why is your office so bare?"

Mikael blinked. Every day in Sophia-land, it seemed, was an excursion to left  
field. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your office," Sophia repeated, ringlets bobbing as she nodded at  
the room as a whole. "There's, like, nothing in it. Is it because you're  
new?"

He felt a confused frown pull the corner of his lips down. "I – well.  
Perhaps it is because I seldom use it."

Sophia tilted her head to one side, rather like a puzzled puppy. "How  
come?"

I will not squirm in my own office, Mikael told himself sharply. "I  
frequently have business with the Professor, so I use his office to do the  
majority of my work." Sophia smiled in apparent satisfaction. "That's  
good. I can't imagine spending all my time in a place like this."

Mikael felt increasingly lost. "Is there something wrong with it?"  
he asked, feeling a trifle desperate as he scanned the room.

She nodded vigorously. "It doesn't feel like you at all,  
Mikael-sama."

   


* * *

Mikael flipped to the next paper, scanning the first paragraph and absently  
picking up the teacup that had appeared in front of him. The tea was too hot and  
he almost scalded his tongue with the first sip. "Damn," he hissed in  
pain and surprise, setting the cup down with a clatter.

Suriel lifted his head from the sketch he had begun. "Are you alright?  
I'm sorry, I should have warned you."

Mikael waved off the concern. "I'm fine," he muttered, going back  
to the paper. Thus far, Barchiel's paper was adequately argued – nothing wrong  
with it, per say, but it lacked some essential fire – no conviction, little  
interest. Mikael nibbled on the end of his pen. Was it right to mark someone  
down for a lackluster performance? He sighed and eventually settled for  
scribbling a low A on the last page, making a mental note to discuss the matter  
in conference.

"-brought in, would you like some?"

Mikael looked up in surprise. "I'm sorry, Suriel, I'm afraid I wasn't  
listening. Would I like some what?"

Suriel's eyes looked concerned. "Did you sleep well last night?"

Mikael pasted a smile on his face. "I slept fine, thank you." Which  
was true, for the few hours he had managed to catch.

Blue eyes darkened slightly. "I see. Well, do you want to brave these  
dumplings Uriel brought in from the City?"

Mikael felt slightly overwhelmed at the stack of papers still sitting in  
front of him, anxiety and his list of things-to-do suddenly settling in his  
stomach like a lump. And as if he didn't have enough to do, he had to plan the  
symposium Raphael suggested, as well. "Well, I'm trying to finish these  
before I conference – "

"Because I want some," Suriel interrupted him, making Mikael blink.  
Suriel actually _interrupted_ him? "I'll go heat some up for us –  
it's finger food, you can eat it while you read." Suriel rose and bustled  
into the kitchenette.

Mikael was slightly surprised later, when the bell rang, that he had eaten  
every last one of the dumplings on the plate Suriel had set beside him. He  
managed a weak smile for the golden-haired angel. "Thank you…I must have  
been hungrier than I thought."

"Indeed," Suriel said softly. "Go on, Mikael, or you'll be  
late for class."

   


* * *

"And as we all remember," Mikael said, facing the class, "the  
log of e to the something is…"

"The something," his class chorused. He smiled approvingly,  
choosing not to notice that Cherior was staring off into space and that Afriel  
was paying rapt attention to the front of the room, though perhaps not to the  
mathematical proceedings on the board. Oh dear.

He looked down at his notes, and wrote their assignment down on the board.  
"Problems 1-20, odds today so you can check your answers as you go. It's  
not due tomorrow, but the evens will be due on Friday, so I suggest you get some  
practice under your belts first. Any questions?"

Books snapped shut in answer, and Mikael tried not to roll his eyes at the  
predictability. "Very well, then. You're dismissed. Afriel, if you'll join  
me in my office."

She snapped up out of her chair, and Cherior elbowed her in the side and  
muttered something that made her blush as only a redhead could. "Coming,  
Mikael-sama!"

They walked through the office, Mikael casting out for some topic of small  
talk on the way. "Are you having a good semester so far, Afriel?" he  
asked, before mentally berating himself for the inanity of the remark.

Afriel treated it like it had been the grandest, most insightful question  
ever uttered in the history of creation. "Oh. Wonderful, Mikael-sama."  
She lingered over his name in a way that made him cringe inside.

They passed Uriel in the hallway. _Taking a girl back to your room?_

_Conference._ Mikael pathed back, irritated at the innuendo.

_So that's what they're calling it these days,_ Uriel said flippantly, a  
leer in his mental voice.

Mikael rolled his eyes and huffed slightly.

"Something wrong, Mikael-sama?" Afriel asked, tone and eyes  
uncomfortably adoring.

"Nothing," he said shortly, waving her into his office. Afriel sat  
on the edge of her seat, and Mikael almost felt like pushing his chair farther  
away. "So," he began. "English seems to be going very well this  
semester – your paper on Victorian women was very insightful, and I can tell  
you put a lot of effort into the poetry section."

Afriel beamed.

He cleared his throat slightly. "However, I think it's safe to say that  
your mathematics mark is not what it could be, and in fact, not what it should  
be."

The poor girl looked like he had slapped her full in the face.  
"But…but…I pay attention, I really do, Mikael-sama."

"To the board?" he asked gently.

Afriel flushed again. "It's not fair. Cherior doesn't pay attention, and  
you don't care."

He groaned inside. "Cherior had a natural gift for mathematics – he's  
one of the lucky few who pick up concepts with little or no effort. The rest of  
us have to work at it. That includes you, my dear."

Her face brightened a little, and he felt like less of a cad. "Perhaps  
you should try a little group studying with someone else, like Sophia. She's got  
a good head for it."

"Why not Cherior?" Afriel asked, pouting a little.

He smiled ruefully at her. "Trust me, Cherior would never understand why  
the average person has any trouble with it."

Afriel frowned and thought that over. "Yeah. Like he's not a jerk enough  
to begin with."

Amen, Mikael seconded mentally.

"Not at all like you, Mikael-sama," she enthused a second later,  
irritated frown morphing into a saccharine smile before he could blink. It was  
rather dizzying.

   


* * *

Home always looked good at the end of the day.

"Keep stirring," he could hear Raphael's voice through the front  
door.

"Is it supposed to be making this noise?" Cherior asked, above the  
familiar sound of a pestle grinding in a mortar.

"Hmmm? Yeah, it should be crackling. It's an emulsifier. Keep stirring,  
come on, put your arm into it."

Mikael dropped his things on the little table just inside the door, hanging  
his bag on a hook. "I'm home," he called.

"Hi!" Raphael called, poking his face out of his workroom.

"How nice for you," Cherior muttered, perfectly audible.

"Shut up," Raphael suggested cheerfully. He disappeared again for a  
moment. "Okay, now mash this up."

The grinding sound of marble against marble, then, "What the fuck IS  
this stuff?"

"Menthol. Dump it into the other one and mix it all up real good."

Mikael wandered into the kitchen. There didn't appear to be dinner on the  
stove, which, considering his growling stomach, hardly improved his disposition.  
"Raphael-sama, did you make dinner?"

Raphael hesitated a moment, then walked into the kitchen. "Aw, damn. I  
forgot, Mikael. I'm sorry – we got caught up this afternoon, making some stuff  
for a few of the healers."

"Right," Mikael said, suddenly feeling entirely exhausted.

Raphael pulled him close. "I screwed up, Kael, I'm sorry. How about I  
order in Japanese?"

"I want sukiyaki," Mikael muttered petulantly into Raphael's  
shoulder, the warmth of Raphael's arms around him relaxing him a bit.

"Anything you want," Raphael said, soothingly. He caught Mikael's  
lips in a soft, conciliatory kiss.

"Gyoza too," Mikael added after a moment, before kissing Raphael  
again. Raphael's tongue danced with his lovingly, and for a moment, the stress  
of the day melted away.

"Gawd. Get a room," Cherior complained, interrupting the moment.

Raphael flipped him off good-naturedly. "My house. My room. You don't  
like it, then go eat dinner with Ari and Dev."

Cherior rolled his eyes. "Hey, let me get out before you do him on the  
counter."

"Cherior!" Mikael snapped, mortified. "Watch your mouth."

_Respect, Cherior,_ Mikael overheard Raphael reprimanding sharply.

"Sorry, Mikael-sama," Cherior mumbled half-heartedly before  
shutting the door behind him.

"Brat," Mikael muttered heatedly. Honestly, the _nerve_.

Raphael kissed him on the forehead once before phoning in their order.

"They say it'll be a half-hour. How was your day?"

Mikael stared at him mutely, feeling horribly drained. "Long," he  
said shortly.

Raphael's eyes softened. "That so?" he said, leaning forward to  
kiss the side of Mikael's neck, sucking softly at the skin. "Mmm. Tense. I  
can fix that."

Mikael didn't feel very optimistic about that until Raphael knelt in front of  
him, purring slightly and nuzzling him through his trousers. "Raphael-sama,  
you don't have to – "

"Shhh," Raphael said, deft fingers unhooking the fastenings.

"Actually, make as much noise as you want. You're beautiful when you  
moan."

   


* * *

The alarm went off entirely too early.

Mikael reached out and smacked the snooze button. Beside him, Raphael was  
still sleeping soundly. Because, of course, he could. Mikael fought down a swell  
of jealousy.

"I love you," Mikael whispered, kissing Raphael's forehead, feeling  
wistful and lonely and resentful all at once.

Then he reset the alarm and managed to tear himself away from the warmth of  
the bed.

   


* * *

"You're not listening to me. _I don't want it,_" Mikael  
enunciated.

Some part of him was vaguely appalled that he was actually having an argument  
with the Administrator of Heaven. He was attempting to stare Gabriel down, for  
heaven's sake.

Gabriel was staring back, pale eyes unblinking. "You're doing the work.  
You're planning the symposium. Raphael's off playing mentor and teaching classes  
and ignoring his paperwork. If you're going to act as his assistant, we ought to  
give credit where it's due."

Mikael badly wanted to swear, but settled for leaning back in his chair and  
crossing his legs. "I don't need a title. What does it matter who does what  
work so long as it gets done?" Gabriel looked at him hard. "Why don't  
you want it?"

Mikael took a breath and exhaled audibly. "I don't want to make a big  
deal out of it. I help Raphael-sama because I can, because we're partners. He  
helps me when I need him – he _has_ helped, else I wonder if I would be  
here at all."

Gabriel nodded slowly, and motioned for him to continue.

Mikael leaned forward, as if physical proximity could make Gabriel  
understand. "Don't make me Assistant Professor. Let me be free to assist my  
partner as I please – we're working hard to make sure that we're no longer  
teacher and student, but equals." He stood up, barely aware that he had  
done so, and leaned over Gabriel's desk.

"The second you make me his subordinate, you destroy that  
equality."

"You _are_ his subordinate," Gabriel pointed out. "You're  
a teacher, he's the Professor."

"Exactly. I _am_ a teacher. I am an independent entity, answerable  
to him, as are all the other teachers. But an Assistant Professor exists only to  
serve the Professor – don't you see, if you make me that, I'll never be _myself_!"

His outburst was rather loud and strained towards the end, and he found he was  
shaking.

Gabriel stood up and offered his hand, and Mikael blinked before shaking it.

"Congratulations, Mikael. This conference is over, and I have no other  
questions. I'll expect you to make an appointment for another evaluation about  
this time next year. You're dismissed."

   


* * *

From the Administration building, he dashed back to the teachers' lounge at  
the school for his meeting with the two angels presenting at the symposium.

"Well, then," Mikael started, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.  
"Ardouisur, I've scheduled you to speak first. Is an hour too long?"

"No, that should be just about right," Ari murmured. "Drink  
your tea before it gets cold, dear."

Mikael frowned briefly, and picked up his cup. "If you confine your talk  
to 45 minutes, you can take questions for the remainder of the time. But between  
your talk and Uriel's, I've scheduled a break so people can stretch and also so  
the students can ask you questions one on one. They'll probably have many, and  
most of them will be indecent."

Uriel snickered. "I bet. Can I answer them?"

Mikael aimed a withering glare in his direction. "If I say no, will that  
stop you?"

Uriel leaned back and gave him a heated look under sable lashes, trailing one  
finger down his chest. "I've never forced anyone, darling."

Mikael felt a smile threatening his lips, and he quickly moved on to the next  
topic of discussion. "Uriel, your talk, also scheduled for an hour, will be  
after the break. Then, immediately following your session, we'll have a  
reception, so students can ask you questions then. Sound good?"

"It sounds just fine. And Mikael, I think it was an excellent idea to  
plan a presentation on intercessions," Ari said warmly.

Mikael blinked, and then forcibly relaxed his jaw. "I didn't plan  
it," he said, keeping his tone impersonal and professional.

Uriel's flirtatious grin faded, and was replaced by a rather piercing gaze.  
"Who did? And if you didn't propose it, why are you doing all the  
work?"

"Raphael proposed it," Mikael said flatly. "And. Well.  
I…"

"You're doing a wonderful job," Ardousiur cut in. "I'm sure it  
will go well."

Mikael felt his face heat a little at the praise. "Thank you," he  
forced himself to say. Looking at the clock, he realized that he should get  
started on the formal write-ups for the students' evaluations. "I have to  
go, but I'll see the both of you on Thursday before the symposium." Ari  
nodded, but Uriel followed out of the room.

"Hold up," Uriel said, touching Mikael's shoulder.

Mikael stopped and turned to face him, despite the urge to go be productive.

Uriel gave him a searching look, his expression devoid of its usual  
sensuality. "Did Raphael ditch you or what?"

"He didn't 'ditch' me," Mikael spat, his defense automatic.

Uriel's eyes were dark and serious. "Easy, now. Methinks the angel doth  
protest too much, but…Mikael, we're friends, aren't we?"

Mikael was taken aback at the calm question. "I…I'd like to consider  
us so. You're Raphael-sama's friend, and so I…"

"No," Uriel said firmly. "You're not just a friend of a  
friend. A friend by default is no sort of friend at all. That's not what I want  
for us – do you want that?"

Mikael shook his head, stunned and sort of mystified at this serious, somber  
Uriel.

"Good," Uriel said. "So. Between friends, do you have a little  
too much on your plate this week, more than your fair share?"

The truth of the statement hit him suddenly, as he realized that it was a  
rather precise diagnosis of what was wrong with this week. He nodded slowly,  
letting it sink in.

Uriel smiled. "That's the sort of thing friends tell each other."  
The smile faded again. "But it's especially the sort of thing partners tell  
each other, I should think. If Raphael ditched you, then you should say  
something."

"I don't _like_ that word!" Mikael retorted.

An easy grin stole over Uriel's face. "Have I told you how sexy your  
self-confidence is?"

"Imagine if I hit you upside the head," Mikael muttered underneath  
his breath.

Uriel laughed, sounding truly amused. "Don't you have urgent business in  
the Professor's office?"

"I have work to do," Mikael said, his teeth clenched.

"Oh?" One eyebrow raised. "Tsk-tsk, Mikael, learn to  
prioritize. Just because it's not School business doesn't mean it's not  
important."

"Of course you'd say something like that," Mikael said, not a  
little bitterness in his tone.

"Because I'm right," Uriel said simply.

   


* * *

His office was inexplicably locked. Mikael stared at it dumbly for a moment,  
trying to remember if his door had always had a lock, and he just hadn't  
noticed. With a sigh, he trudged off to Raphael's office.

Raphael was working at his desk, head bent over a stack of papers. Which was  
suspicious, in and of itself.

"Raphael-sama?" He was rather pleased at the normality of his tone,  
when he was really quite sure that something was up.

More silence. Raphael continued to write, his pen whipping across the page. A  
moment later, he laid the pen down, though he did not look up. "You  
refused."

Mikael blinked. Oh, yes. Gabriel. "Of course I refused. I don't help you  
out because I'm looking for a promotion. You know that, Raphael-sama." He  
couldn't help but feel a little confused. He thought they were perfectly  
together on this issue, after some initial disagreement.

"Hmmm." Non-committal. It drove Mikael absolutely crazy, always  
had.

"What?" He demanded crossly. "I thought we'd worked through  
this. Don't tell me you've had a change of heart." Because if Raphael had,  
well, they were just up a creek, because he absolutely didn't want it, had  
already refused, and he wasn't going to back up on this one.

"Not precisely."

What the _hell_ did that mean? What was going on inside that bedhead? He  
sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Do you know why my office is locked?"

Mona Lisa smile. "Ah. Renovations."

There was nothing wrong with his office. Absolutely nothing. "If you  
wanted to see me, you could have just said so," Mikael retorted, stung.

"Is that so?" Raphael said sharply, looking up finally. "When  
have I seen you in the last three weeks, Mikael?"

That didn't sting – it burned, like acid. "We've both been busy. It's  
bound to happen occasionally."

"Bullshit," Raphael enunciated. "You come to bed late, you  
wake up early, and unless someone's with you, you frequently forget to eat. And  
it's because of me."

"It is not!" he denied fiercely.

Raphael stood up, pushing his chair away with a violent motion, and crossed  
the room to where Mikael stood. "Don't ever make excuses for me, Mikael.  
Ever," Raphael said quietly, eyes dark with anger. "I took on a new  
student, and I left you to pick up the slack, as if you were still a student  
with nothing more to occupy your time. As if you didn't have your own  
responsibilities. That was insensitive at best, cruel at worst."

Mikael wanted to shake his head – deny, deny, deny.

Except that resentment began to bubble from hidden wells that he'd  
conveniently managed to ignore. His fingers clenched into fists. "Yes. Yes,  
it was, Raphael-sama."

Raphael kissed him swiftly, a hard kiss, with no give to it. "And that's  
part of it."

"Part of _what_?" Mikael demanded, anger coiled like a snake  
in his stomach.

"'Raphael-sama'," Raphael mimicked his tone. "You're not doing  
me any favors with that."

Mikael wanted to shake the infuriating man by the shoulders. "What in  
the name of Most Holy are you _talking_ about?!!"

Raphael gripped Mikael's arms. "Listen to me. _You don't have to  
compete with Cherior._"

Raphael might as well have socked him in the stomach. He wasn't sure he could  
breathe. "I'm not," he denied softly, to himself and to Raphael.

Raphael gave him one quick shake. "You won't lose me if you're not my  
student anymore." Eyes and tone so intent, so serious. "You don't have  
to work so hard, you don't have to be such an overachiever – you don't have  
anything to prove to me!"

Mikael looked at him mutely, feeling a welling sense of hurt at the words –  
he'd been working so hard! Why was Raphael _blaming_ him, for…for…

Strangely, suddenly, Raphael's eyes went soft. "You don't have anything  
to prove to me, Mikael, tell me you understand that! Cherior's a pain in the  
ass, you know that. Don't you dare think for a second that I've changed my mind  
about you. You know, for a while there, you stopped calling me 'Raphael-sama'  
altogether. In fact, I think I heard the occasional 'anata' - _darling_ -  
cross your lips, didn't I?" Raphael's thumb traced Mikael's lower lip.

Mikael's cheeks felt slightly warm. "Maybe."

Raphael actually chuckled at that. Then he sobered. "I was neglecting  
you, wasn't I?"

"A little," Mikael allowed reluctantly.

Raphael raised an eyebrow. "Which, in Mikael-speak, translates into,  
'you were totally ignoring me, you dumb fuck, making me think you preferred a  
student to a partner.'"

"Does not," Mikael protested immediately.

Raphael smiled. "Does so. Repeat after me: 'you ignored me, you dumb  
fuck. I'm not your student, I'm your partner, and you were a jerk.'"

Mikael felt a small, embarrassed giggle escape. "I'm not saying  
that."

Raphael's fingers traced in a ticklish pattern over Mikael's ribs. "It's  
true. Say it, or you're going down." His fingers wiggled, threateningly.

"Okay!" Mikael gasped. "You ignored me…"

"'You dumb fuck,'" Raphael prodded, his fingers pausing over  
Mikael's stomach.

"You dumb fuck," Mikael repeated obediently, trying not to laugh.

"I'm not your student, I'm your partner, and you. Were. A. Jerk."

"At the risk of being whapped, he can be taught," Raphael said, his  
tone a trifle smug. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm a little oblivious  
sometimes. If something's not right, we've got to be able to tell each other.  
You're not my student, and I don't want to be your mentor. Which means you've  
got to tell me when I fuck up, not let it fester like this, okay?"

"I'll do my best," Mikael promised softly, his gaze glued to  
Raphael's eyes, like nothing could tear the elder angel out of his sight, ever  
again.

"_We'll_ do our best," Raphael corrected gently.  
"Partners?"

"Partners," Mikael echoed, joining their hands together.

"I'm so glad," Raphael murmured, his heart in his eyes. "So,  
as your partner, I think the very least I can do is take you out to lunch."

Mikael thought about all the evaluations he had intentions of working on.  
Then took another long look at Raphael. Then he pretended to mull it over,  
despite the fact that he'd been craving fresh pumpernickel bread for days, now.  
"How about that bakery next to the Conservatory?"

"Anything you want," Raphael affirmed, offering his arm as they  
left the office.

   


* * *

Thursday had finally come, and Mikael was convinced that the water from the  
drinking fountain was laced with narcotics. His students had taken leave of  
their senses.

The symposium wasn't until the afternoon. So why in Most Holy's name was his  
morning mathematics class bouncing around like Noelle on a sugar high? Half of  
them weren't even subtly pretending to take notes. He was about to threaten them  
with a pop quiz when the door creaked open.

"Pardon my intrusion," Raphael said, face and tone serious.

_Is something wrong?_ Mikael thought at him, alarmed.

Raphael didn't respond – indeed, it looked as though he hadn't heard Mikael  
at all, which was even more alarming. Raphael surveyed the class quickly, then  
briskly rubbed his hands together. "Is everything all set?" he asked  
the room.

The class nodded almost in unison, most of them fidgeting at their desks.  
Definitely crazed, Mikael concluded.

Raphael crossed the room to where he stood. "I'm sure you'll forgive us,  
but we'd like this to be a surprise, so…" Mikael tensed as Raphael  
blindfolded him, and clasped his hand. He added his lover to the "Driving  
Me Insane" list, as if Raphael had ever been off it.

Raphael led him out the door, and Mikael could hear his students shuffling  
behind him, excited whispers echoing in the hallway. He thought they turned a  
few times, and he was no longer at all sure where they were. Finally Raphael  
stopped him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Here we are."

The blindfold removed, Mikael blinked a few times and stared at the door in  
front of him. There was shiny plaque on the front that read:

**Mikael, Patronus  
Mathematics and English**

He shot a startled glance at Raphael, who gave him another Mona Lisa smile  
and pressed a key into his hand. "Go on," Raphael urged quietly.  
"Open it." The class echoed the sentiment, murmurs of "open it,  
come onnnnn," and "Hurry!"

He turned the key in the lock and the door opened soundlessly, and he walked  
inside in a daze.

A beautiful bookshelf dominated one wall, and he could see, without even  
looking close at the titles, that they were his books, all neatly arranged on  
the new shelves. Between two large windows was a small table, laden with various  
plants from Raphael's office that Mikael had managed to resuscitate. Another  
little table with a tea service was tucked in the corner. Mikael remembered  
Suriel asking his opinions on various sets in a catalog, but that had been weeks  
ago, surely…

Off to the side, facing the windows, was a large desk, with his papers  
collected neatly in a pile on top. He remembered to breathe after a moment,  
sucking in a lungful of air.

"Look at the walls!" came an exited suggestion behind him. So he  
did.

There were a few framed poems – a sonnet by Devecia, haiku by Sophia. One  
of Cherior's more bizarre mathematical proofs. A picture of his class, signed by  
the students. And between the two windows hung a rendition of himself, gesturing  
at the blackboard, brought to life by pastels. His eyes found the signature in  
the right hand corner – Afriel – and belatedly, he realized just _why_  
she'd been staring so hard at the front of the room all these weeks.

He turned around slowly to see the expectant faces of Raphael and his class.  
"My goodness," he choked out. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't going  
to cry.

Raphael grinned at him. "This was supposed to be a separate office for  
my classwork, but I never used it and it seemed pretty silly to hang on to it  
when you were stuck in that _closet_…"

The class giggled.

"You're closer to your classroom, and if you look out the window, you  
can see my office, right across the courtyard," Raphael added, pointing.  
Mikael looked and his eyes widened when he saw it was true. "And I feel  
obligated to point out that the initiative for this little project was provided  
completely by your students."

Mikael stared at them, stunned.

Barchiel cleared his throat. "We, um, cleaned it out. Painted it and  
washed the windows and everything."

"Moved your books," Sophia chimed in. "Devecia alphabetized  
them."

"Cherior framed the pictures," Devecia said quietly, smiling.

"He sanded and refinished the desk, too." Cherior was determinedly  
looking away. The tips of his ears were red.

"Suriel-sama helped me find out what kind of tea set you might  
like," Afriel ventured. "He helped me with your portrait, too."

The students chattered excitedly amongst themselves again, before Sophia  
shushed them all. "It's our present to you, because you're our first  
teacher and we're your first students. We wanted you to have something to  
remember us by, Mikael-sama."

The class shifted restlessly. "Say something," someone pleaded, and  
the rest of the class echoed the sentiment.

"It's the most wonderful present I've ever gotten," Mikael said  
hoarsely, tears welling up in his eyes.

The class cheered, and Raphael smiled and handed him a handkerchief.

   


* * *

  
.

Raphael drew one hand through his hair, which appeared to have no discernible  
effect on its overall appearance. "Good afternoon, class," he greeted  
them, smiling warmly.

"Good afternoon, Professor," they replied, in almost perfect  
unison. They were already staring in a sort of horrified fascination, wondering  
if they were really expected to understand today's lesson. Mikael sympathized  
completely, even as a slightly sadistic part of him welcomed the chance to join  
Raphael in his supposedly educational torment.

Raphael clapped his hands once, then rubbed them briskly together, jostling  
the red string tied to his little finger. "Now, today, we're going to have  
a small discussion on linguistics. Specifically, on the word, 'you.'"

He turned around, the string winding once around his body as he faced the  
blackboard. The motion from his writing made the string tug gently from where  
the other end was tied on Mikael's little finger.

"Professor?" one of the students ventured.

"Aa?"

"What does that say?"

Raphael blinked. "It's Sanskrit, of course. Moving on. In French,  
Spanish, and the rest of the Romance languages, there is a familiar and formal  
usage of the pronoun 'you.' Now, who can tell me what determines the usage? Ah,  
Vehuel."

Mikael fought the urge to smile, since Raphael had told him he wasn't really  
to interact with the classroom. But Vehuel was such a dear – and younger than  
most, looking thirteen years old if he was a day, his voice still a boyish  
soprano. "Social status, gender, and age?"

Raphael nodded, and Mikael couldn't help it – he cheated a little and sent  
Vehuel a little telepathic wave of approval. The boy brightened, and Mikael  
hoped that this one would join their ranks as an angel of Most Holy.

Raphael turned to the board again, the string winding around him, pulling  
Mikael closer. "Now. In Japanese, personal pronouns are frequently omitted  
– the subject of a sentence is often clear in context. In fact, the usage of  
'anata' – you – is limited and specific. It's often used on surveys and  
other formal situations, but very infrequently used in day-to- day conversation.  
Except, of course, for married couples, in which case a wife may address her  
husband as 'anata' – which takes on the connotation of 'darling.'"  
Raphael turned to face the class again, pulling Mikael even closer, though still  
gesturing as though nothing unusual were going on, and that he wasn't wound up  
in red string and attached to his partner.

_Red string….bound by fate?_ a voice whispered in Mikael's mind.  
Mikael looked at the classroom, and met Vehuel's knowing eyes.

_I don't presume to speak for Most Holy. That's the Metatron's job,_  
Mikael offered, wryly.

A little wave of amusement. _As you say._

Raphael turned one more time, the string winding Mikael into his embrace.  
"So, remember to write down your dreams tomorrow morning, and we'll discuss  
them in class."

"What if you don't dream tonight, or if you do and don't remember?"  
someone asked.

Raphael closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Mikael's. The moment  
spoke of safety and love and togetherness, all the more eloquent for its  
brevity. "I never said you had to be asleep. You're dismissed."

   


* * *

There was something odd about Saturday morning, and Mikael mumbled the  
sentiment out loud without really realizing it.

Raphael's hand traced an idle design on his hip. "I'll give you a clue.  
It's big and yellow and bright, and you haven't woken up after it in about three  
weeks."

Mikael rolled over onto his back. "Don't make me jealous of all the  
sleep you've gotten lately. It could get ugly."

Raphael smiled lazily and nuzzled his jaw. "Don't be jealous. It's not  
nearly as satisfying without you." A little yawn, and Raphael snuggled  
closer. "So, what are we going to do today?"

Mikael sighed contentedly, reveling in lazy comfort. "Not a damn  
thing."

"I was hoping you'd say that. Back to sleep for awhile?"

Mikael leaned over to kiss him softly, before laying his head next to  
Raphael's on his pillow. "Nothing better, anata, nothing better."

 


	25. Redemption

Miniel huddled inward in the darkness, wrapping his wings around himself for  
added warmth. He kept his eyes open, as wide as they could go, both out of panic  
and so that he would not miss the first sign of light.

Today, his punishment would end, or so Hata, the guard, had said. Miniel  
wasn't sure if this was actually true -- he'd lost track of time in the weeks  
he'd been kept in this pit and Hata could very well have lied just to make  
things worse.

He wrapped his arms around himself and jerked when the door opened, spilling  
painful light in. He managed a smile, started to rise.

"Don't bother getting up," Hata said, laughing.

Hata was thin, as many demons were, with the thick dark eyelashes of most of  
the non-Court demons and a whiptail of purple hair. He was less a guard and more  
the man who brought food and water -- as he had with him.

"You said it ended today," Miniel said, startled to hear his voice  
so harsh.

"It does," Hata said agreeably. "Only I get to decide WHEN  
today and thought why not right before midnight?" He laughed again.

Miniel licked his lips. "That's not fair," he managed, which drew a  
third laugh.

"Well," Hata said, "What would you pay me to make it more  
fair, hmm? Ah, that's actually a rhetorical question -- everyone knows that YOU  
have only one way of paying for things. So, how about it?"

He lowered his eyes, licking his lips again. The darkness seemed to press  
around him, whisper-smooth, and he shuddered. He knew even if he said no, he'd  
throw himself at the door later and beg, do anything, to get the touch of that  
darkness off of him.

"All right," he said, and started to strip.

   


* * *

It was over a short while later, and Hata left the door open when he left.  
Miniel used his water ration to clean himself, then refastened his clothing  
tiredly and headed down the Punishment halls back to his room.

The door opened easily, and all was as he'd left it. He stared numbly at the  
bed for a few moments, so exhausted that he was hard pressed to know what it was  
for, then stumbled over and fell into its softness.

Miniel grabbed a pillow and held it, tight, face buried in its warmth.

That was how he fell asleep.

He woke on his back, laid out perfectly, the pillow tucked behind his head.  
Somewhat refreshed, he turned his head and saw, not too surprisingly, that the  
Leviathan was there. Leaning against the wall, farther back, was Omael.

After a moment of silence, the Leviathan raised one eyebrow and Miniel  
remembered respect, took the Leviathan's hand, and touched his lips to it.  
"My lord," he murmured, trying not to put any tone to the words -- he  
knew if he did, the tone would be sour.

The Leviathan pulled his hand away. "We had such high hopes for  
you," he said, his voice one of parental regret. "And your mission was  
a failure. No wonder, considering your sloppy execution."

Miniel lowered his eyes, both because it was expected and because he didn't  
want the spark of anger to show. _Whose fault was that?_ he groused to  
himself. _I was told to do it right away -- I didn't have time for research.  
It was DOOMED to fail._

"We are willing to be merciful, however," the Leviathan said, and  
Miniel firmly schooled his expression. The demon was continuing. "We will  
give you _one_ more chance -- bring Mikael to us."

Miniel digested this. "How? My Lord," he added. "Mikael is in  
Heaven, and I can't go there--"

"It is your mission; you will choose its method," The Leviathan  
said, and the force of his voice shoved Miniel back into the cushions. "If  
you do not succeed, our punishment will not be as lenient as this last was. That  
is all." He rose, swept blue robes around, and drifted out.

"Fuck," Miniel said forcefully, once he was sure the Leviathan was  
out of earshot.

"Indeed," said Omael.

Miniel's blood flashed cold; he'd forgotten that Omael had been in the room.  
"I didn't -- I--"

"It's quite all right," Omael said, the corners of his lips turned  
down primly. "Shall I make tea?"

The fallen angel hesitated, uncertain of what Omael was getting at. "I'd  
die for a cup of tea," he finally ventured.

The prim look was replaced with a minute smile. "I doubt that."  
Omael nevertheless pushed away from the wall and into a side room, where the  
sounds of a kettle being filled drifted out for a few moments.

Miniel buried his face in his hands and was still like that when Omael  
returned.

"It's steeping," Omael said and Miniel jerked his head up.

"Oh," he said. "Thank you."

That prim look was back. "What do you plan to do?"

Miniel sighed, tucked his hair behind his ears. "I don't know," he  
admitted. "I--"

"You're an idiot, you know," Omael told him.

That took him by surprise. "W--what?"

"What are you doing here?" the Recorder gestured around him.  
"You're too weak for this. Why did you fall?"

_They betrayed you, Miniel. All of them -- Angel of Lust? What an insult.  
They laugh at you, the heavenly whore. The things that Uriel and Cassiel say --  
and you go blithely about life, not even hearing the laughter. You thought  
Cassiel was the tag-along on your team? Hardly. Uriel was the popular one,  
Cassiel was the smart one. You were just the slut. What loyalty do you owe them?  
They betrayed you._

"Why not?" Miniel said, rubbing his head. "Is there any reason  
I shouldn't have?"

Omael snorted. "Survival, perhaps? You're certainly not strong enough to  
survive in the Court. I admit curiosity; your friends were asses, but you seemed  
so close with them."

"They don't matter," Miniel said, teeth gritting.

"I see. Well, since Cassiel is your only chance of getting into Heaven,  
and getting into Heaven is your only chance to get Mikael and thus survive, he  
had better start mattering."

Miniel stared at Omael. "What's it to you?"

"The tea is ready. One moment." Omael brushed imaginary dust off  
his sleeve and turned to head into the kitchen again, heavy braids moving over  
his shoulders like snakes.

Picking at the blanket with his fingernails, Miniel scowled. Why was Omael  
acting like this? What did he possibly have to gain?

Omael returned with a tray and two cups of tea -- Miniel's had sugar but no  
milk, just as he liked it, and he wondered suspiciously how Omael had known.  
"I'm serious," he insisted. "Why do you care?"

The Recorder finished with the tray and took a sip of his own tea.  
"Consider this: I am not a fallen angel or a demon, and yet the place I  
belong is here. I do not belong in Heaven; it hurts me to be there, and I cannot  
trust anyone. I am comfortable here, I am content. You fell, and yet your place  
is still in heaven. Hell will destroy you."

"Yeah, well," Miniel said, "even if I didn't have any reason  
to have left, nobody there would ever trust ME again. I can't go back. Why don't  
you just fall?"

Omael's eyes changed as Miniel watched. Their pupillessness was always  
disturbing, as though you couldn't tell he was looking at you, but now they  
rippled, like a disturbed pool of water. Darker and lighter tones faded in and  
out of them. Miniel stared, fascinated.

"I can't fall," Omael said, voice unsteady. "No matter what I  
do, what evils I commit, and I try so hard, but I cannot fall. He won't let me,  
he won't LET me--" Omael's voice was rising to a panicked shout and the  
teacup slipped from his fingers.

Miniel watched it fall to the floor and shatter there.

"I'm sorry," Omael said, toneless. "Let me clean that  
up."

   


* * *

Miniel sat on the edge of the hard mattress, hands cupped around the teacup.  
He could see the reflection of his face in it, shrunk down in the reflection so  
that it fit inside the cup, small, so small.

He looked tired.

After a while, he made the effort to lift the cup to his lips, arms heavy.  
The tea was cold and he put the cup down. There was no point in drinking cold  
tea. He was already cold enough.

He could feel himself start to shake, feel some kind of odd pressure building  
inside him. He bit down on his lip and tasted blood.

_Dancing, dancing. The temple lights would flicker in the breezes; faces  
blurred as he circled, arms whirling his cloak around him, showing his body,  
hiding it, showing it._

It was the rite of spring. He was supposed to make it look weightless,  
infinite. It was the coupling of goddess and humanity.

He was supposed to--

His ankle turned under him and he went down silently, still spinning, and  
then rough hands were grabbing at him, because although he failed, he still  
represented fertility, still--

He was cold; he had to get warm. He rose, forcing memories away, and headed  
to the bathroom and the shower.

The shower was four feet by four feet. All walls were mirrored; he stepped in  
naked and his nakedness was reflected into infinity.

The spray whirred on and he stared at himself as the wetness traced his body  
like a lover's hands. The red of his lip blurred and spread -- blood, from where  
he'd bitten himself. He saw bruises. His eyes, his lips, along his chest, legs,  
genitals. Between what he'd sold and what he'd beaten himself while locked in  
the Pit, attempting to sense something, anything, even pain--

He barely looked like himself. He turned his head and met the eyes of another  
reflection of himself, unable to escape himself in the mirrors. Wet hair  
plastered to his cheeks, darkened nearly brown by the water.

He shivered, the chill air infiltrating the shower so that he was both hot  
and cold at the same time. He watched goosebumps rise on his own skin.

The shower whirred off and he picked glass shards out of his hands. The  
million fractured reflections followed his motions, unkillable.

   


* * *

Time then for earth. Yes, a change of pace was what he needed, Miniel  
decided, though it meant nothing anymore. What the Leviathan asked of him was  
impossible. What Omael expected was impossible. It was hopeless, but at least he  
wouldn't die here; would make sure he would not return, would at least die on  
earth.

He packed a small trunk; there was no point in taking anything much. He  
needed little. His fingers closed around soft blue cloth and he heard the ring  
of bells, remembering--

_Spinning, spinning, light, wings fanning out around him. Their rustle and  
the bells on his clothing combined for an odd symphony, made more complex by the  
clapping of Uriel's hands in an ancient drum rhythm -- pat pat patapat pat  
patapat. Pat pat patapat pat patapat._

He was laughing, spinning, wings outstretched to catch the breeze so that the  
next leap he took sent him literally airborne, back arching, knees drawn up,  
curving backward until finally his legs were kicked over his head and his aching  
wings lost the brush of wind and he came down hard, landing on his feet to spin  
away again, reach for his target.

Cassiel squeaked as Miniel grabbed him, forearm to forearm, spinning the  
smaller angel up. He watched Cassiel's wings spread automatically and that  
lifted Miniel up as Cassiel caught the wind, a kite to test the air. They span,  
off balance as both tried to control the impromptu flight, then tumbled to the  
dirt together. The rhythm of Uriel's hands broke off into laughter and Miniel  
could feel Cassiel gasping for breath -- of course, the laughter, the fall -- of  
course it was airless, of course

Miniel shuddered, shoved the clothing into his bag and zipped it up, slinging  
it over one shoulder. He pulled his wings into his body -- he wasn't sure where  
to find Cassiel and it would be easier to stay visible for that time, so he must  
pass for human after all.

He took a deep, steadying breath, and left his room, left the residential  
quarters.

A noise rose. It sounded like metal under pressure, like ice heating. It took  
Miniel a moment to realize that it was a scream, and coming from the Punishment  
Halls.

Blackness pressed in on him. For a moment, inexplicably, the walls and floor  
vanished -- he could see nothing, feel nothing, hear nothing, eyes opened wide  
onto nothing that pushed like water fathoms deep, silence so thick that his ears  
hurt, popped, perhaps bled but he couldn't feel it but what he did feel was the  
earth key when he reached for it and he pulled on it, begging in silent tears, _away,  
away, away_\--

The blackness pushed in harder for a moment and then lightened into colour  
behind his eyelids then once more into blackness. He felt the ground hit him,  
hard, and then finally peace.

   


* * *

When he woke, he could hear the sound of someone making tea.

Miniel squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to wake up to lose that peace, to  
find Omael in his kitchen, making tea with motions like an automaton.

But the coarse blanket pulled up over his naked shoulders, the feel and smell  
of hard ground -- those weren't associated with the nightmare his life had  
become.

Naked. Wrapped around in a coarse blanket.

He opened his eyes, saw something perhaps worse than his room in Hell.  
Cassiel sat there, legs dangling into the trench which Miniel was lying in --  
grave-like, his mind flashed at him. A pot of tea and two plastic mugs sat  
beside him.

Cassiel's face was blank but for mild concern, like a mask fit into place.  
Miniel searched his memory for the last time he had seen that mask; couldn't  
remember a time since they'd become angels.

"I made tea," Cassiel murmured. "Peppermint. You look as  
though you haven't eaten in a while. This will help calm your stomach."

_You were always so jealous of him._

Miniel sat up, fast, felt the world spin and grabbed the edge of the trench  
to steady himself. "Where--"

"I'm still working at Bath," Cassiel said, eyes not leaving Miniel.

"I have a little room for when I get to bed, but since you popped in here,  
I decided it was better not to move you. You're a mess."

_I see those things. That's what I do, Miniel, I see those things._

Shaking, unable to look away from Cassiel, Miniel reached out and took the  
mug. It had a few cracks, as if it had been knocked around a few times by  
someone who wasn't careful with what he was carrying. He sipped, tasted the mint  
strongly. It burned a little at the back of his throat, hot and thick.

"Who did this to you?"

Miniel stared at him blankly, unable to figure out the question. Who... made  
him fall? Who had caused him to bleed? Who had sent him back to Cassiel?

"You're all over for bruises."

...Was that the hint of a British accent that he could hear in Cassiel's  
voice? Miniel stared, wondering when everything had changed so much.

Cassiel's expression hardened from concern into patience. "I know you  
can talk, Miniel." His voice was no louder, but was firmer somehow.  
"You did it just a moment ago."

Miniel licked his lips, felt the sharp pull of pain of a split lip. "I  
don't understand," he said, and his voice didn't sound like his own, too  
high, on the verge of breaking.

The spare tea cup fell over and slopped tea on Cassiel's pants as Cassiel  
shifted; the angel made a face and brushed at his pants with two fingers. It was  
an ineffectual gesture. "You're cut up, you're bruised everywhere I've seen  
\-- I checked you for injuries. Who did that to you?"

Laughter bubbled up in Miniel's throat and though he tried to push it down it  
came out anyway, little helpless hiccups. "I did it, Cassiel. Even the  
things my hands didn't do, I did, don't you see? You say that you see things,  
that that's what you do, so can't you see?"

Cassiel was leaning forward farther, eyebrows drawing downwards in confusion,  
and Miniel turned away from the gaze, trying to stop the laughter, but when he  
did tears came instead and that was worse.

He pulled his knees to his chest, the blanket falling from his shoulder, and  
ducked his face as if that'd hide his tears. His mouth was running on, trying to  
talk to keep the tears at bay, but he couldn't think of anything to say and when  
words finally came out, they were the wrong words, ones he didn't want anyone to  
hear, but there they were, teary, bubbly, spoken downwards as if to his teacup.

"...because, don't you see, I'm just a whore after all..."

   


* * *

At first he thought that his words had gone unheard. The silence stretched  
on. He watched his teacup, the shine of reflection.

Finally, the silence was broken by the sound of rustling plastic. He raised  
his eyes to see Cassiel holding out a sandwich to him.

"Here," Cassiel said. "You have to get your strength  
back."

   


* * *

The afternoon lengthened intolerably, time slowing. He sat in the trench,  
shivering from the occasional breeze, and Cassiel sat with him, silent. When  
he'd finished both sandwich and tea, Cassiel rose and took the plastic and cup  
away, leaving Miniel alone.

If he half-squinted, he could pretend it was the past. He could practically  
reach out and touch the ancient Romans, in this place. It was an illusion; it  
was already shattered by the metal rail, by the little battery-powered kettle  
that Cassiel had been using. Anachronistic.

Another breeze gusted and he pulled the blanket up over his shoulder where it  
had slipped.

Cassiel returned. "Come on," he murmured, holding out a hand to  
Miniel.

He stared at Cassiel distrustfully. "Where are we going?"

"I have a room in a nearby hotel. You need to rest and get warm."

Cassiel would have had to manifest to get a room. Miniel's eyes narrowed.  
"So the humans know you're here?"

"They don't see the wings or halo," Cassiel said. "Belief is a  
powerful thing. To them, I'm just a student working on my Ph.D. If I'm gone for  
more than a day, they forget I was here."

"You always did fade into the background," Miniel said.

Cassiel's brows creased, lips tightening as though he were sad or amused.  
Miniel could not figure out which. "Yes," Cassiel murmured. "Take  
my hand, Miniel. Let's get you inside."

Miniel hesitated a moment longer, then took Cassiel's hand. He was amazed;  
he'd not realized how cold he'd actually been until he felt the heat of  
Cassiel's hand in his. "I--"

"It's all right," Cassiel said, sighing. "You don't have to  
say anything."

He gulped, swallowed air, nodded, and let Cassiel help him out of the trench.

Cassiel dropped his hand as soon as Miniel was on his feet, and Miniel hid a  
small, bitter smile. Of course. But Cassiel had turned to go, apparently  
expecting him to follow. For a moment, he considered staying just to spite the  
Angel of Tears, but really, there was no point to that. Just rebellion.

He followed.

In the sunlight, Cassiel looked frail. He always had; wore oversized clothing  
that he shrank into. Miniel took a few faster steps, caught up, turned his head  
so he could look at Cassiel's profile.

Young. Cassiel still looked young after all this time. Back in the day,  
sixteen had been adult. Now he looked childish, too young for any of this.  
Miniel knew Cassiel had to be seeing him, but Cassiel looked straight ahead, and  
kept walking.

Miniel's chest tightened. _Hate me, love me. Don't ignore me._

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

Cassiel hesitated a moment, a little stutter in his walk. "Doing  
what?" He continued, looking straight ahead and a little down, his paces  
even.

Angry, Miniel put his feet down hard as he walked. He didn't have the  
patience to deal with such avoidance. He tried to keep his voice calm.  
"Taking care of me."

Again, a tiny hesitation. "Miniel, you've been one of my best friends  
for well over a thousand years. Of course I'm going to take care of you."

Miniel's hand trembled at his side from the effort of not hitting Cassiel.  
"Do you know what I did?"

"We're here."

   


* * *

It was a tiny little bachelor's flat, consisting of a kitchenette, a tiny  
bathroom with a shower, and a main room with one of those small English beds and  
a small sofa shoved up against the free wall. No pictures hung on the wall; the  
room was impersonal except for the books scattered over every available surface.

Cassiel never changed, apparently.

Uncertain of what he was supposed to do now, Miniel headed over to the sofa  
and picked up a couple of the books that were strewn there. 'History of the  
Kings of Britain' said one title. 'The Romans in Celtic Britain' was another.

"Why do you have these?" Miniel asked, sitting with the books in  
his hands. "You were there."

"Point of view," Cassiel said. He was clanking around in the  
kitchenette, and could hardly have seen what Miniel was referring to;  
nevertheless, considering the lack of decoration, it probably didn't take too  
much inference.

Miniel considered that. "You mean a twentieth-century perspective?"

The fridge door opened audibly and Cassiel's voice was muffled.  
"Precisely. None of these authors _were_ there. They have to guess how  
things were, based on physical records, and the written records of the  
victors."

Disgusted, Miniel plopped the books onto the floor. "Just lies,  
then."

"Hardly."

Miniel stretched his legs out in front of him, tilting his head back against  
the sofa back. "There are facts, and then there's what's written in those  
books."

"Perspective can matter too," Cassiel murmured from in front of  
him. Miniel looked up to see that he was being offered a scone piled three  
inches high with jam and clotted cream. "Facts don't survive. Opinions do.  
Perspective matters."

   


* * *

They ate, sitting on opposite sides of the sofa. The room was drenched in  
nearly complete silence.

Miniel realized that his plate was empty and that the scone had been very  
good. Belatedly, he licked a crumb off the corner of his mouth. He looked down  
at the little plastic plate he'd been given and finally balanced it on the arm  
of the sofa.

The silence stretched on.

Cassiel put his plate down, on top of some books.

"Aren't you going to ask me why?"

Miniel watched, almost smug, as Cassiel froze and turned to look at him.

Licking his lips, perhaps nervously, Cassiel said, "I believed that you  
would tell me eventually."

"You know what I did?" Miniel leaned forward. Now or never. _Hate  
me._ "I fucked Uriel and took over his body. I'm sure Raphael and his  
new boy told you, but when I came to you I was hoping to get you to open the  
gates of Heaven so a strike team could enter. It wouldn't have been the  
Rebellion, but..." he trailed off, still leaning close to Cassiel.

"But it would still be a strike against Heaven, right?" Cassiel's  
face was calm as he finished the sentence for Miniel, though his voice was  
tight. "Yes. I was told this. In bits and pieces. Nobody wanted to tell me  
what happened."

Miniel snorted, tilting his head back to stare at the slightly dusty shade  
for the ceiling light. "I'd have thought they'd have reveled in it, letting  
you know that I was the scum you always thought I was..."

There was sudden movement out of the corner of his eye, and Miniel looked  
back to see that Cassiel had stood, was moving towards the door. "I always  
thought the best of you, you know," Cassiel murmured, voice thick.  
"I'm going to go and see if I can get extra blankets from reception. And an  
extra pillow... I'll take the couch tonight."

Miniel stared after him, feeling quietly numb.

"And..." Cassiel hesitated. "Make yourself at home."

He left. Miniel wondered what he'd been about to say instead.

 

* * *

When the door opened again, it wasn't Cassiel who came through but instead a  
dumpy middle-aged woman who seemed to represent British bed and breakfast owners  
everywhere. He watched her, unconcerned, as she deposited a pile of folded linen  
and a pillow on the bed. Idly, he thought that she would probably call him  
"dear" if she decided to speak to him.

She straightened, one hand on her lower back. Turning, she ran a critical  
blue eye over his sprawled form, apparently taking notes. Her lips pursed and  
she tsked. "You're all bones, dear," she told him. "You should  
take better care of yourself."

How ludicrous. He laughed, head falling back against the couch. It really  
wasn't funny.

She crossed dumpy arms, arms that were good for rolling dough or carrying  
children. "I'll make sure to send extra food up. Neither you or your friend  
eats half as much as you should."

"Friend," he said. "Where is my 'friend', anyway?"

Almost nervously, she tucked a loose hair behind one ear. "He went out  
to buy some items for you, dear." She winked at him. "Said that you  
could be a bit high maintenance."

He closed his eyes, short of breath for a moment, throat tight.

"Well." Her voice showed hesitation, concern. He did not open her  
eyes. "I'll just be heading back, then. If there's anything you need, just  
give me a holler, hear?"

He could feel her leave.

_I hate him,_ Miniel thought viciously, chest aching.

 

* * *

Cassiel didn't return until later that evening. The night outside was dark --  
new moon and cloudy. Miniel took the bed as a fuck-you gesture, leaving the  
folded linens on the couch, and took the extra pillow as well.

He pretended to sleep when Cassiel came back, eyes closed as Cassiel paused  
by his bed. After a few moments, he could hear the soft sounds of Cassiel making  
up the couch and opened his eyes a little to see Cassiel bed down, sans-pillow,  
curling on his front.

Wings unfurled, draping over Cassiel like an extra blanket, a layer of living  
heat to cover what the blankets didn't. Miniel watched, unmoving, as Cassiel  
rested his head on one forearm and closed his eyes.

Miniel closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

   


* * *

He woke early, with the birds, and stayed unmoving for a while. Finally he  
sat up, gathered one of the blankets to himself for warmth, and headed to the  
window.

It was dusty, and he could see the dirty Bath streets stretching away, could  
see the cathedral looming over twisted roads, some of which had crumbling walls,  
remnants of the past, when the Romans lived and horses and carts marched the via  
down the center of the town, when the walls were firm, when the city was  
organized in a grid pattern. In those times, Bath would have been easy to  
maneuver; all Roman cities were laid out in the same fashion. Now it sprawled  
off into the distance, and only the core grid remained, surrounded by tiny wild  
streets barely large enough for a single car, let alone for two to pass.

Miniel opened the window, risking waking Cassiel, and leaned out into the  
breeze. Fresher than he might have expected, but it still tasted of the grime of  
pollutants. He closed his eyes, almost dizzy.

_I should go,_ he thought. _Now. Walk away from this and see how far I  
can walk before Hell finds me._

He heard a noise from behind him and looked back to see that Cassiel was  
fallen half off the couch, one leg dangling and brushing the floor. His blanket  
had slipped and he was shivering, still asleep, in the chill that Miniel had  
brought when he'd opened the window.

It could have been over a millennia ago. Though in those days, it would have  
been a cot that Cassiel slept at. Or a table, face in a book that may or may not  
leave ink stains on his face for days after. Then if he was cold...

Miniel shivered himself, and pulled the blanket tighter around his own  
shoulders, unnerved by Cassiel's sleep-lax face. He felt sick. He couldn't do  
this; not because he couldn't trick Cassiel but because he didn't think he could  
face Cassiel through another day, let alone how ever many it would take.

_I should go,_ he thought, and closed the window. It clicked, and  
Cassiel started, falling out of the bed in a tangle of blanket and wings and  
sleepy confusion.

From the tangle, a head finally emerged and gave Miniel a sleepy smile.  
"Good morning," Cassiel said.

Miniel looked at him, tired again. "Is it?"

   


* * *

They ate breakfast which the woman -- Mrs. Rosenthal, apparently -- had  
brought them. Breakfast seemed to consist of scones again, with far more clotted  
cream and jam than most people could handle on an empty stomach. Miniel ate his,  
wondering bemusedly if this explained the British.

"So," Cassiel said, mouth full so that, with his usual murmur,  
Miniel could barely hear him. "What do you want to do today?"

Miniel took a moment to try to reinterpret, unsure that that was what Cassiel  
had actually said. "Do?" he asked at last, blankly.

Cassiel nodded, licking his fingers. Miniel couldn't help watching.  
"Do," Cassiel said again, nodding. "Normally, I just go right to  
the baths. There's so much to discover... but... you may have changed..."  
he hesitated, just a moment too long. "Still, no matter how much you've  
changed, I'm certain that a day of brushing dirt would bore you."

Disbelieving, Miniel stared at him. "You want to take me out for a day  
on the town?" he asked, and snorted.

"If you like."

It took him a moment to find his breath. When his voice finally came it was  
harsh, thick with the anger that he knew he shouldn't express, for risk of  
jeopardizing his mission. "Cassiel, I _work for hell now_. You do  
realize that? Yes? Or have you gotten stupid while I was gone?"

Cassiel was silent a long moment, face downturned. Finally, he looked up with  
a small, impulsive smile.

Suddenly, Miniel felt sick. He remembered that smile, the little smile which  
had finally officially allowed Cassiel to become the third member of the  
Terrible Trio.

"Does working for hell mean you don't like curiosity shops anymore?  
Cassiel asked, actually pouting a little. "Or walks through long rambly  
streets, or..."

Miniel gritted his teeth, unsure for one horrifying moment if he was biting  
back laughter or tears or anger, feeling too much of all three. "All  
right," he muttered. "You win. Whatever you want, let's do it."

Cassiel smiled wider, a bit genuine. "My choice, then?"

"You know the city," Miniel spat.

Cassiel must have heard the venom, but it didn't stop his smile as he  
scrambled to his feet and held out a hand to help Miniel up.

   


* * *

Cassiel ended up taking him down to the town center, essentially one large  
market district. Stores were crowded together, close enough to seem to be one  
building, but all decorated with flower beds around windows, with brightly  
coloured doors. Some of the buildings were old, at least a couple of hundred  
years. Stand-up wooden signs advertised shop names and contents, sitting on the  
edge of the street; none of them had put up plastic signs and wrecked the  
architecture.

It was hard not to enjoy himself. Cassiel was not precisely enthusiastic, but  
still had a kind of muted aura of delight, almost dragging Miniel from store to  
store, pointing out antiques and marionettes and dishes and far too many tourist  
shops.

"Let's get ice cream," Cassiel said.

Miniel sighed. "I don't _want_ ice cream," he said.

"Of course you don't," Cassiel said, philosophically. "No. Of  
course. But I do."

_Selfish bastard,_ Miniel thought hard, hoping Cassiel could hear him  
without having to actually path it. "Then get ice cream."

Cassiel shrugged a little and headed into the advertised Ice Cream Shoppe.  
Miniel stood with his hands in his pockets as Cassiel poured over the choices,  
as if Cassiel didn't always get Vanilla in the end.

"Made a choice, have you?" the proprietor finally asked, as Cassiel  
straightened.

Miniel couldn't see Cassiel's face from where he stood, but heard a  
mischievous tint to it as Cassiel said, "Bubble Gum ice cream, please. In a  
waffle cone."

Briefly, Miniel wondered if he'd actually pathed and kept pathing. The  
alternative was that Cassiel had known him well enough to have known what he was  
thinking. He felt sick, was glad he hadn't bought any ice cream.

The illness passed quickly as they stepped back outside and Cassiel claimed  
them a park bench. Miniel sat, sank down with a sigh.

"That's bad for your back," Cassiel told him, sitting.

"Fuck you," Miniel told him, pleasantly.

Cassiel shrugged and sucked at the ice cream, mouth working.

Miniel looked, then looked away, quickly, to the pigeons that were gathering  
at their feet.

He could still see the movement of Cassiel's lips on the ice cream, little  
gestures that reminded him, irritatingly, of far too much of the past.

"Just eat the damn stuff, Cass," he muttered.

Cassiel paused, removed his lips from the cone to smile. "A little too  
obvious?"

Miniel froze, then turned to stare. "That was _deliberate_?"

"...not obvious, then," Cassiel muttered. "Damn, I should keep  
my mouth closed."

Well. There was an opening, then, an opportunity to gain control, to complete  
his mission. He smiled, lowering his eyelids a little, leaning forward as if to  
steal ice cream. Could hear Cassiel's breath catch. Could almost feel it  
already. "You want me to fuck you, Cass? For old times sake?" He  
flicked his tongue out, tasting the ice cream, and managed not to make a face. _Bubble  
Gum. What the fuck was Cassiel thinking?_

Cassiel was a little breathless as he responded. "No," he murmured.

"Not fuck." He moved back a little and fumbled his ice cream, sending  
a few pigeons scuttling away with a flurry of offended wings.

Blood pounded in Miniel's temples suddenly, angrily. If Cassiel didn't want  
it, what the hell was he deliberately taunting Miniel with it for? Cassiel had  
never been cruel before.

Apparently deaf to Miniel's anger, Cassiel was looking at the ice cream cone  
melting on the cobbles. "Damn," he muttered. "Oh well." He  
stood up, stretched, and reached a hand down to Miniel. "Let's go. One more  
place for today. Then tomorrow, you can decide what we do, 'kay?"

Miniel remembered the mission, remembered the threats that the Leviathan had  
made, and forced a terse smile on his face. "Fine," he said, and let  
Cassiel pull him up.

   


* * *

He didn't realize where they were headed until they were going down the  
Y-shaped alley beside the cathedral. And when Cassiel pulled him up short in  
front of the church, he just stared for a moment.

It was a Gothic cathedral, buttresses and all. It loomed over the street, its  
huge arched window by far overshadowing the much smaller arch entrance. It was  
laid out in a Latin Cross pattern, and patron saints guarded the door and the  
window, their hands raised in benediction.

"You're taking me to church," Miniel said flatly.

Cassiel turned to him, smiling almost naively. "It's more of a tourist  
attraction now, though they do have services. It's got the most amazing insides.  
Come on."

Muttering curses under his breath, Miniel followed.

Gold gilt seemed to cover everything. Looking up, the ceiling arched high  
over head, with groin vaults and ribbed columns, all screaming of Gothic  
tradition. Cassiel was walking ahead of him, footsteps muffled by the  
architectural layout, down the nave. Flagstones, Miniel thought, then looked  
down and realized they were tombstones.

He might not have guessed if it weren't for the names inscribed on them.  
Looking around, he saw more graves in the walls. He shuddered for a moment,  
imagining the dead trapped under the weight of this church, crying out for  
release.

Miniel knew that all those souls had been taken many centuries earlier, but  
the image stayed with him as he caught up to Cassiel. Cassiel had stopped and  
was examining the stained glass in the apse. Miniel looked; many small windows  
with colourful saints stared back at him.

"The bishop who ordered this had a vision, you know," Cassiel  
murmured, voice more hushed than usual. "Of angels on a ladder, and a voice  
telling him to get his king to restore this church. The king was Henry  
VII..."

"This is an old church," Miniel said inanely, looking for something  
to respond.

"Built in the late fifteenth century," Cassiel said. "AD. Old.  
We're older."

Miniel shrugged. "We're older than most surviving structures. Your  
point?"

"Do you ever feel old?" Cassiel wasn't looking at him, was looking  
down now, so that Miniel could only look at his profile. "Ever feel like  
the world is getting darker, falling apart around you, and even if you don't  
seem to change, you're old? I don't want to live right now," he said, and  
Miniel started.

Carefully, he asked, "You want to die?"

"No!" Cassiel grinned, a bit wryly. "No, I meant... I don't  
want to live in the present. It's too fast, it just... moves too quickly. I just  
want things to be the way they were. Only... I don't really, because stagnation  
is bad, and... I guess I don't know what I want."

For a moment, Miniel hesitated, thinking _I hate him. He made me into this.  
I hate him_, but he put his arm around Cassiel anyway, because this whole  
outing was for old times sake. Was living in the past.

So it was okay to do that, today.

   


* * *

Cassiel let him have the bed again, though Miniel reluctantly surrendered the  
second pillow.

As soon as the light went out he could feel nightmares swirling around him,  
waiting. They were almost solid, brushing him with teasing fingers, and he  
shivered deeper into the blankets.

It would even harder to sleep with his head lower; he could already feel a  
crick in his neck starting and focused on that to stay awake.

Eventually, however, he fell asleep.

   


* * *

They were whispering. He walked down roads that had been familiar to him for  
over fifteen hundred years, and the human souls where whispering. A few pointed.

He kept his head down, tried to ignore them, let the heels of his boots click  
on the roads up towards the school; where else would he find his friends?

He passed into hallways, walls closing in around him. Students saw him coming  
and scattered into classrooms, clearing a path before him. He found Cassiel  
first, in the library, and leaned down to press a light kiss to the top of  
Cassiel's head.

Cassiel started, knocking the chair over as he jumped to his feet. Miniel  
could hear his heart fluttering, could hear ragged, frightened breaths. "Am  
I infected?" Cassiel murmured to himself. "Is a kiss enough to do it?  
I feel like myself..."

"Cass?" Miniel asked, and Cassiel gave him a look of revulsion  
before turning and vanishing among stacks of books.

All of a sudden, the library was an ominous place. The shelves were stacked  
too high, the books were too old, and their musty scent of stagnation drifted  
down to choke him. His dinner stirred in his stomach like worms and he  
backpedaled out of the library, into the hall.

Uriel would know what to do, would know what was wrong with Cassiel. He  
headed back down the hall, ignoring the path students were clearing in front of  
him. When had it been this cold in the school? He headed for Uriel's office;  
though Uriel was rarely there, it made sense somehow that he'd be there tonight.

And he was, though he wasn't alone.

He and the Voice of God were a tangle of flesh, smooth and hot, glistening  
vaguely in the light that came in through the open door. The Metatron had a hand  
wrapped by one of Uriel's braids; Uriel himself was biting lightly at the  
Metatron's throat.

The movement of limbs reminded him of maggots in flesh and he vomited,  
stomach spasming, head to one side. The Metatron's attention was drawn by this  
and he drew back, walking over naked to watch Miniel vomit.

Miniel dry heaved a few times and struggled to his feet from where he'd  
fallen to his knees. Standing, he was taller than the naked man before him, but  
he was trembling, weak, and the Metatron stood firm, face etched with hatred.

"We don't want your kind here," the Metatron said, voice clear.  
"You _whore_."

Miniel took a step back, and the Metatron closed the gap, grabbing the front  
of Miniel's shirt.

Helpless, Miniel looked at Uriel.

Uriel watched, smiling.

With far too much strength, the Metatron shoved at his chest, and Miniel  
stumbled backwards, through a gate that opened behind him into nothingness. As  
he fell, he saw Cassiel standing there, holding a ring of keys, looking  
relieved.

He hit the ground, tried to open his eyes only to discover that they were  
already open into blackness. His hands encountered nothing, and it was silent  
and scentless in that place.

He screamed, and couldn't hear himself.

   


* * *

Miniel woke to find Cassiel bending over him, concerned. It was still dark,  
but now it was the darkness of night, and the bed was beneath him, and Cassiel  
was over him, so he grabbed Cassiel, pulled him into the bed, rolled so that his  
weight rested on the smaller angel.

"You're okay?" Cassiel murmured.

Glancing up at the clock, Miniel discovered that it was just after three in  
the morning. Good. He bit down on Cassiel's throat, teasing with teeth and  
tongue, sucking in the way that he knew Cassiel loved.

Cassiel gasped. "Min..."

Rubbing his hips lightly against Cassiel's, he murmured, "It's after  
midnight. You said I could choose what to do today. I want to fuck you."

Although Cassiel's hands had risen to Miniel's hips, he was pushing back a  
little, trying to withdraw. "You'd force me?"

Miniel swallowed, tasting ice in the back of his stomach. "You know I  
don't do that. Can't do that," he added, and that was literally true; the  
powers he'd been born with didn't allow him to rape.

"Yesterday," Cassiel whispered, "I said I didn't want you to  
fuck me. If you forced me to contradict that because I said you could decide  
what we'd do together today..."

Miniel was barely listening. He pushed himself up, hands gripping Cassiel's  
shoulders tightly enough to leave bruises. "How dare you accuse me of  
that?" he demanded, shaking Cassiel. "How dare you accuse me of  
threatening to rape you?"

"Why did you possess Uriel?" Cassiel asked. "Why did you want  
to allow an attack against Heaven? _Why did you fall_, Miniel?"

"Revenge!" Miniel shook Cassiel again, harder, until a little  
trickle of blood trailed from Cassiel's lip where he'd bitten it by accident.  
"For what you did to me! For pretending so long! For--"

Cassiel's arms shot up, broke Miniel's hold with the ease of practice.  
"What did we do? Miniel, what the hell do you think we did?" He was  
shouting, actually shouting, and somewhere behind Miniel's anger, Miniel found  
that shocking. "_What did we do wrong_?"

"The Leviathan let me hear what you two say behind my back," Miniel  
spat. "'Slut. _Whore_.'"

Cassiel stared at him, face pale.

"Surprised I know?" Miniel said, voice mocking. "Be proud; it  
did take me over a millennia to realize how you really feel about me--"

"How dare you?!" Cassiel shouted. "How... Miniel!"

Cassiel's fist cracked against his jaw and Miniel fell backward, aching,  
stunned. Cassiel followed the motion through, straddling him, grabbing the front  
of his shirt to pull him up. "We never thought of you as a whore,"  
Cassiel hissed. "The Leviathan let you hear yourself, you bastard." He  
slammed Miniel back down into the sheets, pinning him there with his hands.

"I'm sick of you envying Uriel for being able to fuck around without  
feeling guilty. I'm sick of you hating yourself to the point where you're BLIND.  
None of us _ever_ thought you were a whore, though I imagine that opinion's  
_changed_ after what you did."

Miniel stared, jaw aching, chest aching. "I never knew you hated me so  
much," Miniel said.

The last thing he expected happened; Cassiel started to cry, heaving sobs  
that seemed to come from his gut. "I don't hate you, you shithead," he  
said, crying. "Uriel doesn't hate you, even now. He'll never understand why  
you did that to him. He's been forcing himself not to think about it so he can  
stay sane; I was at the school recently, I saw that. He loved you; he'll never  
understand. And I loved you. I still love you, Miniel." Slowly, Cassiel  
crumpled, letting his face bury itself in the cloth between his fists which were  
still balled in Miniel's shirt. "You want to know why I wouldn't let you  
fuck me? There's no love in that word when you said it. No _respect_, even.  
I want you to make love to me, not fuck me. I _still love you_. How could  
you think we'd say anything like that?" he whispered into Miniel's shirt.

Miniel lay there, feeling sick. He couldn't summon the strength to raise his  
arms to put around Cassiel; he didn't know whether that'd be welcome.

He thought of the long days of torture in Hell, thought of the sharp tangy  
taste that came with realizing that your feelings had been betrayed, that  
seventeen thousand years of friendship could be thrown away.

Cassiel finally sat up, scrubbing at his eyes, and scrambled away, to the  
window. "I have to go," Cassiel said.

Miniel couldn't say anything.

But Cassiel didn't go, hesitated, then finally added, "I'll be back  
soon," and leapt out of the window, wings unfurling.

Miniel lay there for long moments more, thinking of Uriel turning to welcome  
him, cigarette dangling from his lips, dragged out of deep thought. Thought of  
the smile.

He thought of Cassiel, eyes guarded, holding out a cup of tea in a cracked  
plastic cup.

He curled onto his side, drew his knees up to his chest, and cried, because  
he was alone and nobody could see him do it. Utterly alone.

   


* * *

Mrs. Rosenthal came in about 9, to bring them breakfast, and tried to coax  
Miniel to say something. Her strong, pudgy hand was on his back but still he  
didn't answer. He hoped his silence would drive her off, but she just sat there,  
her hand on his back, waiting.

"Please leave," he finally managed.

"No, dear, I think I'll stay."

He twisted, glared at her with bloodshot eyes. "What gives you the  
right--"

"I have a son about your age," she said, smiling a little. "I  
know the signs that somebody needs to talk."

"Somehow I doubt," Miniel spat, "that your son is about my  
age."

She didn't comment, just kept sitting there, waiting.

"Let's say," he said, "That I betrayed my oldest friends. Is  
that enough? Will you please _leave_?"

He wanted to be alone.

"Have you thought of apologizing?" she asked, gently.

He froze, anger and pain warring within him, anger winning out.  
"Sometimes," he hissed, "an apology isn't enough." He rose,  
and pointed at the door.

Mrs. Rosenthal sighed, rose, and headed out. "Think it over, dear,"  
she said, and shut the door gently behind herself.

Miniel sank back to the bed, and found himself starting to laugh a bit,  
through tears. Apologize; of course. As if words could solve everything.

Sometimes he'd forgotten how stupid humans could be.

   


* * *

Cassiel came back about eleven, carrying a small package, one hand in his  
pocket. Miniel still hadn't touched the breakfast scones, and Cassiel gave them  
a brief glance before sitting on the floor, about five feet away from Miniel.

Trying to put himself on a more even footing, Miniel slid down so that he was  
sitting across from Cassiel, his back against the bed.

They looked at each other, for a long moment, then Cassiel took his hand out  
of his pocket and opened his hand. Inside was the Ring of Gate Keys. It jangled  
gently in his hand.

Miniel's eyes widened.

Carefully, watching Miniel's face, Cassiel put the keys down, halfway between  
them. They glinted a slick bronze, sitting on the dusty pink carpet.

Miniel's stomach clenched. If he could get into Heaven, he could get Mikael,  
and he'd never have to be punished again. He swallowed, throat tight.

After all, there was no going back.

Was there?

He looked up at Cassiel's face, saw sadness, tiredness, too much tiredness.  
Cassiel really was too thin, overworked, tired. If it were the old days, Miniel  
would drag him to bed and tuck him in and tell him not to get up for at least  
two days.

Miniel turned his gaze back to the keys. He knew if he didn't take them, he  
would suffer eternal torment in hell, and if he did, Cassiel would be  
disappointed in him forever.

Really, it wasn't much of a choice at all.

He leaned over and very gently picked up the ring. The keys jangled, their  
own kind of music.

They glittered in the light, as he held them, gently twisting on their ring,  
and then he held it out to Cassiel and took a breath. "Yours, I  
believe."

   


* * *

He kept his eyes lowered for a very long time, throat tight, trying hard not  
to think of the torture that would wait for him. It was easier if he didn't  
think about it too much.

Cassiel's fingers brushed his, warm, as he took the keys gently from him.  
Then those same fingers were on Miniel's face, turning him to look at Cassiel.

Miniel almost flinched, seeing the relief and joy, and Cassiel leaned  
forward, brushed his lips over Miniel's, soft, warm, with just a hint of wet.  
Promising.

It was suddenly hard not to start crying, because that promise would lead  
nowhere.

Cassiel sat back on his heels again, and carefully took one key off the ring.  
Smiling, crying, he held it out.

Confused -- wasn't the test over? -- Miniel took it. It flared warm,  
comforting, in his hand.

"Let's go home," Cassiel said.

Home.

Miniel stared at the key in his hand -- a key that could not be received  
without the Metatron's permission -- and felt his heart tighten. Home. _Home._

He was going _home_.

He tried to bite back on the hope that was welling up inside him.  
"I...can't go back. Even if they gave me permission, they won't trust me.  
They'll be watching me all the time, waiting for me to betray them. I can't live  
like that. I know I didn't earn it, but... I can't live without trust. I'd  
rather just. Suffer." He bit his lip, trying not to cry, feeling the hope  
falter inside him, suffused by despair.

"I trust you," Cassiel said quietly. "Is that enough? I love  
you. I trust you."

The package in Cassiel's hand surged, paper wrapping falling away. Cassiel  
lost his grip on it but no matter; it knew where it was going.

Miniel's halo fixed itself over his head, tight, secure, glowing and spinning  
almost fiercely.

   


* * *

He had been right, of course; he was met with an escort and taken to the  
City. The Metatron, who walked with him the whole way, face tight, told him that  
he must not return to the school without an invitation for the day.

Miniel nodded, accepting, because it would have to be enough.

The Metatron stopped in front of an apartment, and the escort stopped as  
well. "This will be your home for now," the Metatron said shortly.  
"Depending on how you behave, we'll see how things change."

Miniel nodded again, then ventured, "I'm sorry I hit you."

Calm facade cracking, the Metatron stared at him with angry gray eyes.  
"Don't you think what you did to Uriel was far worse?"

"Yes," Miniel said, feeling a little sick. "But I have to  
apologize to _him_ for that."

The Metatron stared at him, then nodded, shortly. "Apology accepted. It  
didn't bruise much."

Was that a flash of a smile before the Metatron turned away and was followed  
down the street by the escort of Guardians?

Miniel picked up his scant belongings and carried them into the building.

Cassiel was inside, putting books on the shelves in strict alphabetical  
order.

"You..." Miniel was at a loss for words, then finally demanded,

"What are you doing here?"

Cassiel turned, smiling. "I only have a few weeks left of my sabbatical  
anyway. I thought it wouldn't hurt to come back a little early."

Feeling faint, Miniel put his bags down and leaned heavily on a wall.  
"You're staying... here? Not at the school? But... your classes will be  
starting up, and..."

"It's not a long walk," Cassiel said, quietly, and smiled a small,  
impulsive smile. "And if I'm late... let them wait."

Slowly, awkwardly, as if out of practice, Miniel smiled back.

 


	26. We're Not Heroines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with Vagrant Story.

The prayer woke Ardouisur out of a sound sleep.

_Please, God, he'll kill me, he'll kill her, oh please!_

She leaned forward and took a few calming breaths. The prayer was a cold, fervent, terrified rush, making bile rise in her throat.

_Oh God oh God oh God - please, I've never asked for much...please, I need to give him a son, or he'll kill me, kill my little girl - oh God, please!_

The pleading, the taint of evil choking around the woman's future...

Ardousiur flipped the covers back and nearly made it to the washroom before becoming violently ill, falling to her knees on the cool stone floor.

She had rinsed out her mouth, and thrown a robe on, intent on flying to Raphael's abode - anything, anything to soothe her out of the chill of the desperate prayer, anything to answer it.

"Madam," a voice greeted quietly. "His Grace, the Voice, requires your presence."

Ardousiur jumped at the noise, shutting the door with more force than she had intended. "And you are?"

A female Guardian, her blond braids coiled on top of her head, saluted smartly. "Ehrengrad, madam. If you will allow me to escort you?"

Ardouisur shivered in the night air, her thin robe doing little to dispel the cold or her sense of urgency. "Give my regrets to his Grace. I have a prayer to answer, so if you don't mind - "

"Madam. It's about the prayer. If you would please follow me."

The Guardian looked like some nightmarish china doll in armor, except for eyes that burned like pale green fire. Ardouisur nodded slowly, and extended her wings to follow.

Ardouisur touched down on a window ledge of the Tower. A warm hand grasped her own and helped her down.

"Your Grace," she murmured politely.

"My dear Ardouisur," the Metatron replied, his voice soft, not disturbing the quiet of the night. "I apologize for the short notice - I was also taken rather unawares, as you can see." He gestured to himself, his body wrapped in a muted silver robe.

The prayer hit her again in a sickening wave.

"Easy," the Metatron murmured, guiding her to a chair "Breathe deep - do you want some water?"

She shook her head, and slowly her shaking eased, . "I can't stand it,"she rasped, her throat raw. "I can't stand it. I have to help her, please..." Her fingers closed over the knot that held the Metatron's robe closed.

Slender fingers removed her hand from his clothing. "It's not that easy this time. Think, dearest. Reach out to her and tell me if you think you can solve this by taking me inside you."

She closed her eyes, reached for the fragile, desperate soul. Normal, normal, nothing wrong with the woman, nothing wrong...but the man, her husband....

The man stank of evil. This one....had sold his soul.

Ardouisur opened her eyes and tried to catch her breath. "He'll kill her, I can't do anything with that - I can't superimpose with _that_, there's no connection. He'll kill her..."

Her throat felt tight as she reached out for the little girl. There was a sense of the ephemeral about the soul...this one was not destined to reside on Earth for long. But from what? So many children succumbed to illness in their early years - it wasn't proof that the man would kill both child and mother, was it?

"He will kill them both," the Metatron affirmed. "Unless she provides him with an heir."

"Why are you telling me this?" she raged, helpless tears spilling down her cheeks. "Why tell me if I can't help her?!"

Fingers stroked through her hair. "Because you can, if you don't think the price is too high."

"No price is too high," she said firmly, with unshakable faith.

The Metatron looked grave and sorrowful all at once. "Everything has a price and everyone has a limit. I wouldn't advise you to agree to the former without knowing the latter."

She looked deep into his eyes for a moment, then turned her head. "Just tell me. I'll do it."

The Metatron stood and walked some distance away. "Tell me something, my dear. Is Truth inherently good?"

She blinked, startled at the seeming non sequitor. "I suppose so," she ventured after a moment.

"Do you? Tell me, then, is Love also inherently good?"

"Love is the greatest grace of all," she said automatically.

A soft chuckle. "And you're only parroting a truism, without putting any thought into it. So. If the Truth hurts someone badly, sends them to madness and despair, is it still good?" He paused for a moment. "This child the woman begs for - this child could have the capacity to tell the Truth. It's important for people to hear it once in awhile. But you see, my dear, Truth is not inherently good or evil. It exists. Now, how it is presented is another matter entirely. The child would have the capacity for great good or great evil."

"With a father like that," she whispered, "I fear he'll have little choice."

"With a mother like you, he'd have more than you might think."

Ardouisur sat up in shock. "What...what are you talking about? Will the child die and become a student? Then..then what's the point? The husband will still kill his wife and her daughter if his son dies!"

"Shhhh," the Metatron soothed. "Nothing of the sort. I told you this had a price. Let me explain."

"Please do," she snapped, collapsing back into her chair.

He seated himself across from her, with admirable poise. "It's something of a trade, you see. The husband is a Duke of great power. And now that he has sold his soul, he's an instrument of great evil as well."

"Why permit that?" she asked, horrified that such a creature would be permitted to hold a position where he could do so much harm.

"The child," the Metatron said urgently. "The Duke may stay in power so long as he produces an heir. The Duke is of no use to the Court in Hell if he's not in power. They _want_ him to have a child, and that will be both his and their undoing. Because they can't get a child without us, and if we provide them with one, the heir will be ours - by which I mean yours. Under your guidance, the child has the capacity to do truly wonderful, truly good things - to speak the Truth, and to act on it."

She took a moment to absorb it. "I don't see anything to quibble with. A small sacrifice for the greater good - a trade, as you said. The wife and daughter may live, the Duke gets an heir, and we get Truth. So if you don't wish to answer the prayer with me, find someone who will, already."

"There's only one who can do it. You said it yourself - you can't touch the father. You need someone to channel the power of the Court for you, to allow you to work your miracle."

"I would answer the prayer with the Morning Star to see this through," she said, defiant.

An assessing look. "You would, at that. He isn't the one, though. So tell me, _is_ Love inherently good?"

She took a deep breath, and answered honestly. "Love is more painful than anything I've known."

The Metatron nodded slowly. "Likewise, the price of Truth."

"What do you mean?" she whispered after a moment.

"The Leviathan is the one. Give yourself to him, and the child is yours."

"Oh God," she said almost soundlessly, her lungs refusing to draw in air. "Oh God."

She felt herself start to topple forward. Arms caught her before she hit the floor, and alto voice said, "I'm here."

"Imriel," she thought she heard herself say. "God, not Imriel." The world looked grey and spotty, and there was an insistent buzz in her ears.

"You don't have to do it," alto tones soothed. "We would never think less of you, if the price is too dear."

"But I might," she said dully. "I might."

Where does a soul go when it rises neither to Heaven, nor falls to Hell?

Sometimes it stayed tethered to the earth, unable or unwilling to leave, howling out eternity among the living. Sometimes they were heard. More frequently, they were ignored.

But some, Ardouisur knew, became something quite different. Those whose souls touching and twined with the Truth became...

Snowflies.

The land she wandered now might not have existed physically. It was a sunken valley, steeped in twilight, trees arching and protecting the space. The moss was soft beneath her bare feet...the stream cool to the touch. Snowflies danced in the air around her.

But she could not say it was real.

The Truth (the Dark!) breathed here, calm and resonating like a chime just struck. Its power was noticeably different from the Most Holy and the Morning Star, though it derived from both, like the meeting shadow between day and night.

Ardouisur sank against the roots of gnarled oak. "How am I supposed to find you, anyway?" she muttered to herself. She pulled a parchment out of her pocket - a formal agreement, signed by the Metatron and the Leviathan. "'Find the Kildean Priestess,' he says - like she couldn't be just anywhere she wants, and I'd never know."

The sun didn't appear to be setting. Somehow, Ari wasn't surprised.

A jingle of bells made her eyes snap open. "Who's there?" she called warily.

Sitar and rhythm of drums, in the distance.

She stood up, and the valley had changed. Become darker somehow, firelight and snowflies flickering among the trees. Clinking of chimes....behind her?

Ari turned and began walking, though the source of sound was so indistinct. She had to find it.

Snowflies brushing her bare arms, so cold it burned. "Where are you?" she called, the darkness swallowing her voice.

Bells chiming in melodic counterpoint to the music. The snowflies swarmed in clouds, and Ardouisur felt light-headed, felt like she was flying and not walking, which was awfully strange because her wings were folded in...

"You're a long way from home, angel." Voice husky and sweet, with a little amusement, some curiosity.

Ardouisur whirled around to come face to face with the woman who had become a goddess.

"My Lady Mullenkamp," she said respectfully, curtseying. "I've come with a proposal for you."

Mullenkamp's skin glowed golden in the firelight, coins and bells burnished to a copper flame among her red veils and skirts. She smiled slowly. "Can you dance?"

Ardouisur gave her a measured look. "I suppose."

The goddess beckoned. "Dance first with me. Then we'll see."

There was a fire now, ringed with smooth stones. A slight smell of incense  
curled around the clearing, like the snowflies that flew above.

The music was hard _not_ to dance to. Her hips had already wanted desperately to shift and rock in time. And so she gave in, her bare feet gliding over the grass, her pale green gown swirling around her.

And as she danced, her eyes met and held the dark depths of the goddess, flicked away only to meet once again. They danced opposite each other, the fire dividing them. Eyes meeting, turning away, meeting again. And then, Ardouisur spun once, her hands reaching toward the snowflies above. When she came to a stop, the goddess was right behind her.

"A long way from home," Mullenkamp murmured, her hands resting on Ardouisur's hips. "Why are you here?"

"You're a goddess - don't you know?" Ari replied, though her voice sounded more dreamy to her ears than waspish.

"I didn't say to stop dancing," Mullenkamp said, a pointed reminder in her purred words.

Ardouisur began to dance again, letting Mullenkamp guide them. It was strange to dance when she could not see her partner, yet the goddess managed to lead them with no seeming worry whatsoever, with deft pressure on Ari's hips, the occasional touch of sleekly muscled thigh to thigh.

"Solemn and desperate and terrified and resigned all at once. It sounds tiring," Mullenkamp said, having pulled herself up tight against Ardouisur, so that her lips were just behind the angel's ear.

Ari jerked in surprise, only to feel the grip on her hips tighten almost painfully.

"You're a sacrifice three - four, really - times over. For Heaven, Hell, the Dark....and for the ego of the one who still casts such a miserable shadow over you. And here I thought angels were more progressively minded. How cliché. Sacrifice the woman's virtue for the greater good, and never  
mind that she thinks, deep down, that she _deserves_ it."

"I don't think..." Ardouisur began to protest, stilling.

"Don't you?" Mullenkamp purred. One hand, clad with bracelets, stole up Ardousiur's stomach to rest between her breasts. "And don't you feel that every time anyone's touched you like this, since _him_, that it's only duty, and don't you hate it, anyway?"

Ardouisur's blood felt like prickling shards of ice, burning her even as they coursed through her veins.

"You must be so pleased. You've been given the opportunity to lie in his arms once again, with nary a shred of guilt. Because you're being _forced_ to do this, aren't you?"

Ari began to shake with belated anger. "I'm _not_ pleased, I don't _want_ to do this!"

Mullenkamp's arms tightened around her in a constraining embrace. "Why?"

"What why? Because he threw me away, because he doesn't love me!"

A sweet, dark chuckle. "Mmm. You're on the right track. But that's not what you're afraid of. Would you like a hint?"

"I want you to let go!" Ari cried, trying to struggle free.

"Here it is, free of charge: What you're afraid of, what you fear most, is this: that while he stakes a claim on your body once again, he will look no different than he did before, even while professing his supposedly undying love."

Ari did manage to pull free that time, or perhaps the goddess let her go. "You're wrong! He loved me then! I knew it, I felt it!"

"Oh? Then why are you here?"

"For this!" Ari held out the parchment like a shield.

"Tsk-tsk. You dance so well and lie so badly. In any case, I'm afraid I can't oblige you tonight. Come back tomorrow."

Snowflies swirled around them, obscuring Ardouisur's sight. And when they cleared, the goddess was gone and she was alone with her thoughts.

Ardouisur missed Yurkemi most days, but today especially.

Yurkemi had been girly gossip, confidante, sister confessor, and best friend rolled all into one. The Rebellion had taken the two people most dear to Ardouisur - one by choice, one by force.

Yurkemi had known what she was thinking, without words or telepathy - just a look, and they both shared the joke, the memory, the emotion.

And if Yurkemi had been here, she would have reassured Ardouisur - No, you loved each other - Ruah changed him, Ruah seduced him, Imriel loved you, he really loved you -

But Yurkemi was gone. Forever gone, eternal blossom crumbled to dust.

And Ardouisur was no longer able to reassure herself. Not since _her_ words.

_He will look no different..._

Ardouisur's lips compressed to a thin, angry line. Imriel would of course look different, because he was Fallen now, and the Leviathan, really. Not her Imriel any longer.

She stopped in front of Raphael's home. _Raphael_, she called quietly.

The door opened after a moment. "Ari!" Raphael greeted her, smiling warmly. "Come in, come in, I must have cookies around here somewhere." He pulled her inside.

"Raphael," she said finally, interrupting his stream of chatter.

Something in her voice must have brought him up short - he closed his mouth mid-word.

"Could we sit down?" she asked, gesturing towards the window seat.

Raphael blinked once, but obediently ushered her over and they settled comfortably on the cushions. "So. What can I do for you, Ari?"

Once she was here, she realized she didn't know where to start. She turned her gaze outside the window, her fingers restlessly picking at the material of her dress. "Raphael...you remember when we were together?"

Raphael's eyes softened. "It's not something I'd forget, Ari...we weren't right for each other, but I still have good memories of us."

"Did you love me?" Ari asked suddenly, though it was not the question she wanted to ask.

Raphael looked sad, maybe a little wistful. "Enough to know that we were both seriously rebounding, and that we needed time to heal. I did love you, Ari - and I still love you. You're one of my dearest friends, you know that, don't you?"

She nodded slowly. "Do you think he loved me?" came a beat later, the words escaping almost without her knowledge.

Raphael's eyebrows rose. "I didn't see much of Imriel, Ari, but he always wanted you around. He was proud of you...he liked people to know that you were together."

"Yes," she said slowly. "That's true. But did he love me, Raphael?"

Raphael looked troubled. "You obviously felt strongly about one another. He was...very upset when you declined to Fall with him."

"If one could characterize a cold murderous rage as being 'upset' - then yes, I suppose that's true," she said thoughtfully.

_will look no different, even while professing his supposedly undying love_

She stood up abruptly. "Sorry, dear, I have a previous engagement this evening, but it was nice to see you."

Raphael showed her to the door, looking bewildered. "Likewise, darling, likewise."

The valley was drenched in sunlight. The snowflies looked like dandelion puffs, floating this way and that in the breeze.

The goddess was lying underneath a tree, lounging in the dappled shade. Her skirts and veils were a rather appealing shade of dark green.

"I wasn't sure this place had any other setting besides 'dark and mysterious'," Ardouisur called out.

Mullenkamp smiled. It looked friendly in the way that a lioness who has just stuffed herself from the most recent hunt looked friendly. Sleepy and satiated was all very well and good, but it would do well to remember that she had seriously dangerous claws and teeth. "Complacency is an expensive luxury, in my opinion."

Ardouisur sat down a few feet away. "And paranoia is better left to Omael."

A corner of the goddess' mouth quirked up. "Touché. Tell me, is there some sort of law against shoes in Heaven?"

Ardouisur blinked, then looked down at her bare feet. "The Metatron would never stand for it. But I just like to feel grass under my toes."

"The Lady of the Flowers," Mullenkamp murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" Ardouisur murmured, surprised.

Mullenkamp smiled again, the sleepy huntress look. "I like to know who comes knocking on my front door, as it were. And speaking of the utterly paranoid, your Recorder is a positive font of petty details."

Ardouisur narrowed her eyes. "You talked to Omael?"

"No law against it. And even if there was..." Mullenkamp flashed her another smile, this one with teeth. Her canines _were_ a bit pointed, actually.

Ardouisur forced herself to relax. "Should have known that the Recorder was an incurable gossip," she replied casually.

They studied the forested valley around them for several moments. Ari stretched out on the ground, uncaring of possible grass stains on her white gown. There still was no guarantee that the foliage was real, anyway.

"If your soul were a bowl of water, yesterday you were soot black. But today..." the goddess trailed off, heaving a peaceful sigh. "Today, I'd have to upgrade your condition to muddy."

"Thanks ever so much," Ari retorted tartly. "As it happens, I did a lot of thinking yesterday."

"Oh?" Mullenkamp yawned. "Underrated pastime, in my opinion. More people ought to take it up."

Ardouisur narrowly managed to restrain herself from glaring. "That and tatting," she replied.

"Definitely. Good lace is so hard to come by."

They fell silent for a few more moments.

Ari rolled over onto her side. "How did you come by the design on your back?

Mullenkamp turned to face her, leaning forward as if to impart a secret. "Got really drunk and woke up with it."

Ardouisur laughed. "Oh, you did _not_."

The goddess grinned. "Why ask if you already knew?"

Ardouisur's smile faded. "Because you're branded with the Rood, not the Rood Inverse."

Mullenkamp closed her eyes and smiled. "The Dark works in mysterious ways," she said, in a remarkably good mockery of a fat little pious priest.

"Is that so?" Ari said. "It's quite striking on you, just the same."

Mullenkamp stretched. "Why, thank you. All the heretics are in it for the accessories, you know." She paused, a hint of teeth in her smile again. "How about the angels?"

Ardouisur touched one hand to her halo. "I don't think the gold goes well with my coloring, personally. I'd prefer silver. The wings are pretty all-occasion, though."

"You mind?" Mullenkamp asked, her fingers just brushing one of Ari's feathers.

Ardouisur stretched out one wing towards Mullenkamp. The goddess trailed gentle fingers through the feathers. "The human artists would have us believe that your wings were fluffy down, you know. But you have more layers than that, don't you." It was not a question.

Violet eyes met jade. "I wonder if we didn't used to be all soft. But the truth is, you can't endure rain or wind with wings like that."

"But can you keep warm?"

"I used to think so," Ardouisur said softly. "But recently, I find myself fearing frostbite."

"Among other things," Mullenkamp murmured. It was also not a question.

Ardouisur closed her eyes. "It sounds simple in theory. Hell gets the Duke, Heaven gets the wife, and you get the child. An equitable trade."

"To all but you," Mullenkamp hissed, and Ari's eyes flew open in shock. "Being coerced into allowing assault isn't much a step up from rape. How can you lie there, knowing millennia of abuse at a loved one's hands, and then turn around and agree to it with an enemy, all in the name of a woman you've never met and a child that hasn't been born?!"

The angel flinched and drew back. "A godddess, of all people, ought to understand the power of prayer. Gross ignorance doesn't become you."

"The same could be said for yourself in regard to self-sacrifice you can ill afford. Only a fool agrees to the price without knowing her limit." Mullenkamp glared hard at her.

"And only the heartless would place themselves above another's cry for help," Ardouisur shot back, rising to her feet angrily. She Keyed back to Heaven and stalked back to her home, utterly furious.

When she got there, she realized that her feet were, in fact, grass-stained.

Ardouisur tossed and turned, utterly unable to sleep. And so she found herself back in the valley, nightgown trailing behind her as she carefully picked her way through the woods. Finally, unable to see much past the front of her face, she came to a stop.

"What do you want me to do?" she said tiredly, quietly. "Yes, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of Imriel. I don't ever want to feel that helpless again, except this time it would be so much worse, because I don't love him. But I'm alone, and I don't know what else to do. If you have any suggestions as to how to not make this the second most traumatic experience of my life, I'm open to them."

She didn't really expect a response, and dragged her Key out of her pocket.

"Now, really, that's the most sensible thing you've said since we've met. As it happens, I _do_ have a suggestion. Don't go alone," Mullenkamp breathed in her ear, arms clasping around the angel's middle. "Take me with you."

Ardouisur craned her head around to peer at the goddess through the darkness. "What do you get out of this?"

Mullenkamp's gaze was steady. "The pleasure of your company?"

Ardouisur shivered a bit, though it seemed that press of the goddess' body against her own was a warmth that verged on scalding.

It was raining on Earth, which was pathetically cliché.

Ehrengrad was escorting her once again, like a vicious china doll armed with a pike. And as they approached the meeting place, Ardouisur ducked into an alleyway.

"Madam?" Ehrengrad asked, surprise in her otherwise steady voice.

Ardouisur took a deep breath, and then looked deep into Ehrengrad's face, and brought her right hand up in between them. "Watch my fingers," she said. "Three, two, one."

Ehrengrad crumpled to the ground, and Ari draped a spare cloak over her to shield her from the weather.

At the entrance to the alley was Mullenkamp, enveloped in a dark cloak, the hood pulled down to hide her face. The goddess called the pike to her hand. "Ready?" she asked tersely.

Ardouisur nodded.

The Duke's manor lay just ahead. It looked suitably forbidding in the harsh rain, light spilling out the windows, yet unable to touch the darkness. They entered, passing by the servants unnoticed. The drawing room was not at all hard to find, and as promised, the Leviathan was waiting.

The firelight didn't lend a particularly attractive color to his features. Imriel had always been better served by pale lights, which made his pallor and blue ringlets coldly beautiful.

"That meddlesome bitch signed the contract, after all?" he asked, a study in indifference. "Suppose we'd best get this over with."

Ardouisur remained rooted where she was. She pushed back the hood on her cloak. "I have a few questions first, Imriel." Her voice had dropped to a gravelly alto. She felt curiously detached, as though she were merely looking at a photograph.

"Really?" Imriel cast her a sideways glance, which strongly suggested that any questions Ari had ever had weren't worth the air she used to ask him.

Her hands clenched into fists, because it hit her all of a sudden - that was _not_ a new look.

"Yes. Tell me, did you ever love me, Imriel? Really love me?"

One pale blue eyebrow arched. "Sentimental as always. I suppose you can't ask for much more from a woman always on her knees in a flowerbed."

Ardouisur stared him straight in the eye. "You didn't answer my question."

A corner of his mouth pulled upwards, and Ardousiur's nails bit into her palms - not a new look, _not_ a new look, Imriel had always used it when he was about to talk down to someone whom he thought intellectually inferior - and he as using it on her, had he always used it on her? "Tell me, Ari, what is Love, anyway? Can you define something like that for me?" he asked in a smooth, condescending drawl.

From just behind her, she felt Mullenkamp's finger trace the symbol of the Rood on her back. Ardouisur swallowed hard, once, before quietly responding. "Love is not possessive. Love is not jealous."

"Love is slow to anger and rich in kindness, yes we know, thank you very much," Imriel snipped. "How terribly original, Ari. I'm so impressed with your education. Could we get on with it, already?"

"Very well," Ari whispered, and her cloak slipped over her shoulders to puddle at her feet.

Mullenkamp had been terribly, horribly right.

The Leviathan looked no different from Imriel. And the revelation made her submission to him all the worse.

_I swore I would do this, and I will_, Ardouisur thought to herself. She took another step forward. And another. And another, until they were in the bedroom. Mullenkamp, still hooded, shut the door with herself on the inside.

The Leviathan stripped briskly, uncaring of his nudity, uncaring of hers. He looked at Mullenkamp. "Really, Ari. Whatever I think of you, I'm hardly going to savage you. Do you really need a guard?"

"Not a guard. A witness," Ari told him tersely. She could feel the symbol of the Rood on her back, burning on her otherwise clammy skin.

He didn't bother to conceal his impatience. "Come here." He stripped efficiently, uncaring of his own nudity, or hers. She joined him on the bed, and his skin and the sheets seemed equally cold.

_I can't do this,_ she thought, the words coming to her slowly, inevitably. _I can't do this...I can't do this...I can't do this._ Repeated slowly, as if she were frozen on this inside.

And eventually, as the Leviathan rolled her onto her back, an anguished mental moan, like a wounded animal.

_Mullenkamp, I can't do this!_

The Rood flared to burning, desperate life on her back as the Leviathan sank in...

Imriel sank in...

And the face above her own was not that of a man at all.

"Hello, darling," the goddess of the Dark said.

Mullenkamp lay heavy and warm between Ardouisur's thighs. Dark strands of the goddess' hair pooled on Ardouisur's breasts, partially obscuring them from view.

Mullenkamp's golden eyes were serious, so solemn. "What do you have to do?"

Ardouisur felt dreamy and drugged, as though everything about her were taking an eternity to unfold, every detail perfect, quiet, serene. "I have to pray."

Mullenkamp's fingers smoothed down her side, over the swell of Ardouisur's hip and then under, stroking the back of her thigh. "You can feel him?"

She could. "How is this happening?" She could feel the gateway to that tainted power, waiting for her own to join with it. But around her, fingers stroking through her hair, wrapping purple strands around her fingers, was only Mullenkamp.

"You can feel what you want. If we two chose to dream together, who could tell us that his reality is the only right path?"

Mullenkamp's skin was soft, so soft, the curve of her backside giving way to the smooth trail up her spine. Ardouisur's hand pulled at the nape of the goddess' neck, pulling her down for a kiss.

Mullenkamp gave her one chaste kiss, a solemn covenant, one finger pressed at the top of the symbol of the Rood still warm on Ardouisur's back. "Pray then, angel. But will you pray only to your Most Holy?"

"To whom else should I pray?"

"He's not the only one who can hear the prayers of the hopeless. Won't you pray to me, angel?"

"I..."

Mullenkamp licked a trail between Ardouisur's breasts, her fingers dipping between the angel's thighs. "You will by the end."

Ardouisur understood in that moment that this, too, was a sacred promise.

And in the end, she whispered her prayers against the goddess' lips, so that she could not tell where she ended and the goddess began, with the words of the prayer mingling with soft cries and sweat and skin and a strangely fierce sort of tenderness.

Mullenkamp drank her in and held her through the shuddering end.

And when she opened her eyes once more, the Leviathan stood beside the bed, his expression dispassionate while redressing himself in his finery.

"It seems the years have sunk some sense into you, Ari. I thought for certain you'd wail some undignified nonsense."

Ardouisur pulled her robe on. "Sorry. You just weren't that good."

He looked momentarily disconcerted, but recovered. "Where did your 'witness' go to, I wonder?"

Where, indeed?

Ehrengrad was in the drawing room, giving no indication that her charge had ditched her in an alley. She ignored the Leviathan utterly, and took Ardouisur by the crook of her elbow. "If you please, madam."

Ardouisur allowed herself to be led out the door, and they Keyed back to Heaven simultaneously. She waited for the Guardian to turn on her with sputtering rage, to chastise her for recklessly endangering herself.

"Will you tell them?" Ardouisur asked finally.

"What have you done that needs explaining, madam? You completed your assignment. End of story," Ehrengrad said firmly.

Ardouisur stopped her. "We both know that that's not all that happened."

The Guardian's perfect bow lips compressed into an angry line. "Would you have me betray you, madam? You were resourceful, you were clever. You don't owe them an explanation." She stopped suddenly, as if such a flow of words had never escaped her all at once before.

Ardouisur raised her eyebrows at the unexpected venom in the Guardian's voice. "I think that's a slightly treasonous line of thought," she said mildly.

Ehrengrad looked like a winter day, but the fierceness in her voice burned. "Not at all. It's the sincerest form of loyalty."

"To whom?"

Ehrengrad looked away.

They walked in silence, through the streets of the City, souls and angels moving feverishly around them, but Ardouisur felt as if they were standing still.

"You'll think me forward," Ehrengrad said abruptly.

Ardouisur met her eyes. "If you can't be forward with me, then whom?"

"When I was at the School, you were the only one. I thought they had no use for more women, never mind that half the Earth is full of them. They told me they already had an angel for women, that they didn't think there was a place for me among the Guardians."

Ardouisur touched her fingers to the back of the Guardian's knuckles where they clenched around the pike. "And yet."

They walked in that same moving stillness for a few small eternities.

"I used to sit on the walls of your Garden, just to see you," Ehrengrad said. They were at the base of the Tower, and the Guardian seized one of Ardouisur's hands and clasped it between her own. "Don't be weak now, madam, not when you've been so strong all this time. You did your job, but they'll never understand Her, and they'll never understand you and I. Some things should stay a secret."

Ardouisur felt her eyes widen. "You know Her?"

Ehrengrad said nothing.

"I have to go up there," Ardouisur told her, with a nod of her head. Her hand was still cradled in Ehrengrad's own. "Perhaps...you'll come by tonight? There are some things I want to talk to you about."

"Is that an order, madam?"

Ardouisur looked pointedly at their joined hands. "Just a request."

Ehrengrad pressed a hurried kiss to the back of her hand, dry lips brushing a quick caress. "They're waiting for you."

Ardouisur started up the stairs, her back straight, her pace dignified.

The Metatron and the Most Holy were separate entities, no matter that the latter spoke through the former. And so Ardouisur was hardly surprised to see the Voice wringing his hands in distress.

He almost broke into a run when she walked through the door. "He told me it worked, but He wouldn't tell me if you were....do you want to sit down? What can I do? Do you need tea? A backrub? Are you...are you hurt?"

Ardouisur stepped toward him and wrapped her arms around him. He was shaking, but she felt the same sense of calm, motionless among chaos.

"I was so frightened for you," he whispered into her hair. "I could hear your words, but it was like you were barely there." He clutched her tight. "I don't know how you did it, Ari...I don't argue with His plans, but I was so worried. He had to know what it would do to you!"

Ardouisur froze.

_He had to know._

And then she relaxed in the Metatron's arms. "It's okay, Koe. It's okay. But there's something I want."

"Anything," he swore fervently. "Anything you want, it's yours."

"I'd like to teach at the School. A few classes, of my own design."

He peered at her, grey eyes bewildered. "Yes, of course. If that's what you want." He paused. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Koe," she reassured him.

_I heard the Truth._

She was back in the valley. Winter had come in a day, apparently - Ardouisur could hardly tell the difference between snowflakes and snowflies.

Mullenkamp's cloak was trimmed in silver fur. Ardouisur had the uncomfortable feeling that it was still alive.

"The interesting thing about divine plans is that they aren't perfect," Mullenkamp began, breaking the silence. "You work with Rood-bearers enough, and you'll find out that fallible beings can fuck up the best-laid plans left and right."

"You made a deal with the Most Holy," Ardouisur said slowly, trying to piece it together. "You offered a child of the Truth for...what?"

Mullenkamp gave her a predatory grin. "Now you ask me. You knew what Hell was getting out of the deal, and you had part of Heaven's motivation, but you never asked why I would offer the powers of the Dark."

Ardouisur frowned. "I thought it was just a possibility that the child could be a Truth-bringer. I didn't know you could control it."

Mullenkamp snorted. "Well, it certainly doesn't happen by chance. I wanted the child, and I wanted to meet you...and He agreed."

"Why?" Ardouisur asked her, frustration sharpening her voice.

"I told you. He has plans. Sometimes, his angels aren't too adept at the follow-through. After the Rebellion, you were the only female angel for far too long. Heaven sometimes mirrors Earth in ways He didn't intend. He needed you to do something about it. But you were focused," and here Mullenkamp laid a hand against her chest, "in here, and so you couldn't realize that there were others who needed you, not just the human women who pray to you."

"Like who?" Ardouisur whispered, though she thought she already knew the answer.

"You came with her. You now. Blond, about yea high, reasonably scary. She called on me during her Trial, because they were angling to fail her since she had been a woman."

"That's cheating. Or treason. Possibly both."

"You don't have any room to talk. If you'd taken any sort of interest in your surroundings in Heaven, she wouldn't have been in that situation to begin with. So, I wanted to meet you."

"And knock some sense into me?" Ardouisur asked.

Mullenkamp leered. "Please. Sex is a much nicer method of persuasion than violence." She tugged back her hood, and the snowflakes began to dot her dark hair. "Besides, Ehrengrad was one of mine."

Ardouisur couldn't have kept the look of shock off her face if she'd tried. "That's impossible. She'd never have been tapped for the School if she'd been one of your priestesses."

Mullenkamp waved away her objection. "It wasn't anything formal. She never actually used the Dark. But it did give her an edge, which was helpful since the Guardians had the deck stacked against her."

Ardouisur struggled to take it all in. "I'm supposed to meet her later this evening to talk," she said.

Mullenkamp raised her eyebrows. "Well, doesn't _she_ work quick. Do you know that she used to sit on your Garden walls just to watch you?"

"I heard," Ardouisur said dryly.

"Kildean is a sexy language, you know."

"I remember."

"Ehrengrad's fluent. Maybe if you ask nicely, she'll conjugate some verbs for you."

"I'll be sure to mention it. I should get going."

Mullenkamp stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Make sure you come up for air in about nine months - there will be someone I want you to meet. Now, granted, we'll have to wait until he learns how to talk before he can start telling the Truth, but it'll be worth the wait."

"I'm sure. I'll be here," Ardouisur promised.

She left the snowflies behind, and back in her garden, she noticed a familiar form gracing the top of one wall.

"Tell me, how do you take your tea?" Ardouisur called, making her way to the cottage.

Ehrengrad hopped off the wall and followed her through the front door.


	27. Home Is Where

Omael walks down the corridor with even, measured steps. He counts them off silently as he goes: _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, stop_. He stops and turns to his right, then walks down that corridor as well. It's pitch black, he can't see a thing. Not a thing.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, stop_. He stops and turns to his left and keeps going.

He loses track of his steps partway along and stops, holds out his hand. He can't see but his eyes are wide in the darkness. It doesn't help; he has no pupils. The darkness sees for him.

Omael's hand encounters a door.

"You're back."

The voice is soft, smooth, sexless and toneless but Omael imagines something in it, and that's enough. He slides his hand down the door, finds a latch, twists it down. It opens into darkness, lit by the figure who has sat up in his bed, one knee drawn up to his chest.

"I'm home," Omael tells him.

Fingers uncurl thinly in the air, reach towards him. "Welcome back."

Omael drops his bag and lets his writing tools scatter as he rushes over. He tugs at his waistcoat, cursing low-voiced to himself, and there's a soft, amused laugh.

"What's the hurry?"

"I never have any time," Omael babbles, breaking a button to get free. "I never - it's not-"

"Shhh." A long, thin finger presses against Omael's lips. "Listen. Do you hear that?"

Omael is silent, listening, and doesn't hear anything. Not a thing. "Yes."

"Good."

He undresses slowly, folding each piece of clothing before laying it down. No, he cannot lose control like that, he thinks, he cannot just rush in where angels fear to tread. He folds clothing and runs fingers over lace to smooth it and then kneels naked on the bed.

The Morningstar likes to be the one to undo his braids. Omael lowers his head so that it touches the cloth over the Morningstar's leg, forehead pressed there, while his back arched. His knees are drawn up to his chest and he feels a cool hand run down the knobs of his spine and up again before moving to his braids.

The rainbows come undone and they flutter in the Morningstar's fist. He runs his fingers over them, softly, as if they contain memory and power, which they of course do. And then he drops them over the side of the bed where they flutter out of sight. Omael turns his head to watch them go, pupilless eyes wide.

His heart sings with freedom.

The Morningstar presses him face-first into the bedsheets and it's all right. He doesn't have to see. Here is the place that he doesn't have to see. He is allowed to speak, here, is allowed to be, is allowed to do, is allowed to have biases. Heaven doesn't allow him biases.

He presses his face into the pillow and whimpers.

The Morningstar is a stinging burn inside him and he arches, spreads his wings. If he were a normal angel, his halo would be cutting a hole in the pillow like this, but he's not a normal angel and he has no halo. He gave it away years ago. It's not his business what was done with it.

"I'm happy," he whispers into the pillow, muffled and toneless. "I'm happy. I'm happy. I'm happy."

After, the Morningstar pulls him down and holds him. He's fucked and been fucked by many people, but HE is the only one who holds him after.

He thinks this must mean something.

There's a scream, somewhere off in the distance, and Omael stiffens for a moment.

"Hush," the Morningstar murmurs, and strokes his cheek, strokes his long, loose hair. "It's all right. You're here now."

The scream cuts off and Omael closes his eyes. "Yes," he murmurs. "I'm home."

He can't see the Morningstar's smile, but he can imagine hearing it. "Yes," the Morningstar says. "You are."


	28. Diamonds

The Metatron felt like he had a rather lot in common with lepers.

Not the grotesque appearance part. The Metatron took pride in his  
show-stopping outfits. Tonight's was an exceedingly clever sheer plum-colored  
pantsuit, which looked like it would give everyone in the room an eyefull, but  
covered all the pertinent parts. The Metatron was on excellent terms with his  
personal tailor.

He was also wearing a small fortune in diamonds - long bobs hanging from his  
ears, a net choker, and a web of sparkling rosettes woven neatly through his  
hair. Because, dammit, if they weren't going to come near him, they were at  
least going to _look_ at him.

And look at him they did, as he paused in the main doorway to be announced.  
Silence fell over the room as all the angels turned to look at the Voice of Most  
Holy. The expressions on their faces registered awe, reverence, and even fear.  
The crowded parted to let him walk through, and he scanned their faces for a  
friendly one.

_Raphael, I really hope you didn't leave me alone,_ he thought to  
himself.

A hand caught his shoulder. "Hey, Koe," a cheerful voice greeted.

The Metatron turned to see the happily smiling Raphael, his amethyst eyes  
warm with welcome. He was aware that others were backing away from them.  
"Don't look now, but you've joined the ranks of leperdom," he muttered  
to Raphael.

The Professor sombered. "Don't fault them, Koe...they're just  
afraid."

The Metatron sniffed delicately and snagged a wine glass off a passing  
waiter's tray. "So says you. I'm dateless for the billionth time in a row.  
Who did you come with tonight?"

Raphael gestured behind the Metatron with his drink. "I came with him,  
but I certainly don't expect to leave with him. You know how he is."

The Metatron turned around to see Uriel, and his throat tightened. It  
happened at that moment that the Angel of Wrath turned their way and smiled at  
them, before sauntering over.

Uriel gave the Metatron a blatant once-over, causing the Voice of Most Holy  
to blush. "Beg your pardon, mind if I steal him for a dance?" Uriel  
requested suavely, wrapping one arm around Raphael's waist.

The Metatron nodded vaguely, and tried to look interested in his wine.

Uriel manuvered Raphael to the dance floor, his hands already wandering.  
Something sultry with a funk beat was flooding the room, and they danced  
together, their hips pressed firmly together, courtesy of Uriel's firm grasp on  
Raphael's ass. "Ever had him?" Uriel husked in Raphael's ear, trailing  
his tongue along the curve.

"We're just friends," Raphael murmured, twisting his hips  
sinuously.

Uriel pulled back a bit and cocked an eyebrow, a hungry smile playing over  
his sensuous lips. "You're _friends_ with him and you haven't jumped  
him?"

Raphael looked amused. "We're friends and that's _why_ I haven't  
jumped him. Not the sort of thing I'd want to mess up with sex."

Uriel smiled crookedly. "Not like us, hey?" He captured Raphael's  
lips in a lurid kiss. "Still...he's all alone. And that outfit - a waste of  
a good babe, there."

"Gonna do something about it?"

Uriel looked at the Metatron, his smile turning predatory. "Yeah. I  
think I'd like to take him home. See what he looks like in those diamonds...and  
nothing else."

Raphael grinned devilishly. "Dinner tomorrow night says he's a  
screamer."

Uriel snorted. "Excuse me, I am the expert on the matter. I think he'll  
be quieter...you know, the mewling kind. And it's a bet." He winked and  
threaded his way back through the crowd, grabbing two glasses of champagne on  
his way.

The Metatron was still alone when Uriel approached. Everyone else was a good  
five feet away, and the Voice of Most Holy was delicately pouting and nursing a  
glass of wine. _Definitely a babe,_ Uriel thought. Slender, with girlish  
hands and a beautiful face - and a dead sexy mouth. He walked up quietly and  
exchanged glasses with grey-eyed angel, who smiled tentatively and took a sip of  
champagne and then regarded it in surprise.

"Gabby actually sprang for the good stuff?" the Metatron said  
incredulously.

Damn. Hot AND he called the stuffy Administrator "Gabby". How had  
Uriel managed to completely ignore him before? They always did Summonings  
together, but Uriel had always paid more attention to the Most Holy and the  
ritual itself than to the stormy-haired angel holding him aloft in the sky. _Definitely  
a mistake on my part._

Uriel placed a hand on the small of the Metatron's back. "I don't see  
you at parties often. A real shame," he breathed, watching the Metatron's  
tongue retrieve a drop of champagne from plum-colored lips. Uriel dipped a  
finger in his glass and sucked off the champagne. "I don't suppose a lovely  
creature like yourself is here alone tonight?"

And the looker actually _blushed_ at his comment. Interesting.  
"Well, as a matter of fact…I am," the Metatron said quietly. There  
was something in those dark pearl eyes - loneliness, maybe? It decided Uriel.  
Tonight, the Metatron was going to have company.

"Would you like to dance?" Uriel asked, his hand moving to the stem  
of the Metatron's glass, his fingers trailing in a sensual caress over those  
girlish hands. The stormy-haired angel nodded, somewhat dazed, as Uriel plucked  
the glass from his fingers and deposited both glasses on an empty tray. He led  
the Voice to the dance floor and drew him close, though not as close as he had  
danced with Raphael. After all, he wouldn't want to scare the babe away by  
moving too fast. "What shall I call you?" Uriel asked, practically  
purring in the Metatron's ear. "Your Grace? Your Eminence?  
O-Thee-Of-The-Fabulous-Jewelry?" he teased. "Koe," the Metatron  
said softly. "That's what Raphael calls me."

"'Voice' in Japanese?" Uriel smiled at that. "Trust Raphael.  
Very well, Koe," he said, his voice caressing the name with a throaty  
drawl. He stepped a closer, their chests and groins now brushing occasionally as  
they danced. The Metatron showed no signs of bolting, so he judged the time  
right for a kiss.

The Metatron tasted like champange and the scent of lavender wafted from the  
storm-grey hair. He was slender and soft and made little noises of pleasure as  
Uriel explored his mouth and worshipped his lips. Uriel was dimly aware that  
everyone in the room was staring and couldn't have cared less. "They're  
looking," Uriel whispered. "Always looking, aren't they, Koe? But  
never touching, are they?"

The Metatron looked at him, and he could have drowned in those dark pearl  
depths. "Never," he said, and Uriel could see the loneliness and the  
longing and the fear clear as day. "_I'll_ touch you," Uriel  
promised, melding their bodies together, letting the Metatron feel the evidence  
of his desire. "I'll touch you until all you know is my name, Koe," he  
husked.

The Metatron's eyes widened, loneliness replaced by a naked wanting. Then he  
said the magic words and Uriel cheered inside:

"Take me home, Uriel."

   


* * *

Uriel had given himself to many, and had many more. And he loved the thrill  
of the chase, loved the capture and subsequent intimacy. He and the Metatron  
reached the front gardens of the Palace, and the mansion glittered like the  
diamonds at the Metatron's throat. Uriel's fingers tangled in Koe's hair  
and pulled him close for a thorough kiss. "I don't suppose you have a  
bedroom in there, do you?" Uriel husked, his fingers whispering over Koe's  
hips in a delicate caress.

Grey eyes darkened with desire. "Race you," the Metatron said  
breathlessly, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the house. Uriel  
raised his eyebrows, grinned, and gave chase. They ran up the main staircase,  
and Uriel caught him at the top, groping Koe shamelessly as they stumbled into a  
bedroom. Uriel paused as the Metatron flicked on the overhead light.

The bed was fricking _huge_. With champagne-colored satin sheets. Uriel  
looked down at the immensely desirable angel in his arms. "Oh, hell yeah,"  
he breathed. He toed the door closed and brought Koe's hand up to his lips.  
Soft, this one. Uriel kissed the Metatron's fingertips, using his teeth gently  
on the delicate skin of the inner wrist. Koe moaned, and Uriel knew that had  
been just right. Soft, and he liked it soft, did he? Well. Uriel could do soft.  
Uriel could do _anything_.

Uriel lowered Koe onto the bed, his tongue exploring the skin exposed around  
the diamond necklace. "So beautiful," he whispered. "So alone – someone  
like you shouldn't be alone," he continued, his fingers making short work of  
the buttons on the jacket. He peeled it away and looked down at the Metatron.  
Stormy grey curls spread out around his face, his full lips reddened by their  
kisses. His chest was smooth and pale like ivory, punctuated by rosy nipples.  
Uriel gave Koe a naughty little smile before dipping his head down to worry at  
the spot behind Koe's ear, causing the Metatron to moan ever so nicely.

   


* * *

  
"So lovely."

"They worship you the wrong way."

"If they only knew…"

"Exquisite."

The Metatron gasped and panted in Uriel's arms, reacting as much to the  
blue-eyed angel's words as to his touch. Deft hands had removed both their  
clothing, so that the Metatron was nude except for his diamonds, and Uriel's  
skilled mouth was working its way down his chest with licks and kisses and  
honeyed words.

And a luxurious while later, when Uriel was gently making love to him, moving  
sweet and slow inside him, the Metatron knew he was lost. He moaned and cried  
out underneath Uriel, the beautiful words and the intimate touch bringing him so  
close, so close…

The Metatron surrendered with one wordless cry of ecstasy, and Uriel clasped  
him close, groaning in completion.

A long stretch of quiet ensued as they caught their breath. Then Uriel hmmed  
with evident pleasure. "So good, love," he said in a throaty murmur.

The Metatron closed his eyes. "Hold me?" he asked softly. Arms obligingly  
wrapped around him, and Uriel spooned his form behind the Metatron. And with  
that, the Voice of Most Holy slept the sleep of the utterly content.

   


* * *

  
The Metatron was woken by a gentle, almost chaste kiss. And when he opened his  
eyes, Uriel was gone. The Metatron sighed and rolled over. "You knew this was  
going to happen, didn't you?" 


	29. Make Them Wear Miniskirts

Raphael could tell it wasn't going to be a peaceful meeting. Interesting, maybe, but not peaceful.

Exhibit A was the Metatron, whose mouth was set in a delicate pout as he walked in. He sat down and gracefully swung his legs up on to the conference table, which made Gabriel's jaw clench, and made everybody else suck in a collective breath.

The high-heeled Mary Janes were positively sedate in comparison to the rest of the Metatron's shoe collection. He had entire rooms devoted to footwear in the Palace, which made for some really stunning variety. Raphael was also pretty sure that it wasn't the garters peeking out from the miniskirt that were responsible for Gabriel's furious expression. After all, robes had long been in fashion, and besides that, the Metatron had spent the entirety of the eleventh and twelfth centuries in drag. Something about floopy sleeves, if Raphael remembered correctly.

No, it was probably the fact that the miniskirt was red velvet, trimmed with white, the top was matching and midriff-baring, and the Santa hat was perched artfully over ringlets. The Metatron narrowed his eyes at Gabriel's look of displeasure, and the gauntlet was thrown.

Although, it probably was Gabriel's fault in the first place for going on and on and _on_ at the last meeting about returning some sort of moral value to Christmas and other holidays. The Metatron, naturally, had firmly been on the side of parties and celebration, capitalist or not. Gabriel had called him an irresponsible hedonist, and a great many other things as well, and Koe-kun had finally stomped out in a huff.

"That is so wrong, I don't even know where to begin," Gabriel said finally, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Well," Uriel said helpfully, "the good thing about garter belts is the easy access. Wouldn't you agree, Mikael?"

Mikael had obviously spent too much time around Uriel – he was becoming so desensitized, he didn't even bother to blush. "I wouldn't know, since I've never worn such a thing," he said coolly. His Sandalphon impression was entirely too apt.

"I was talking about Raphael," Uriel said slyly.

_I look good in white_, Raphael thought to Mikael.

_We're in a meeting_, Mikael snapped.

Gabriel cleared his throat. "As I was saying – " a pointed look at the Metatron " –with Christmas approaching, you will all be expected to put in overtime. With the seasonal increase in prayers, there is a very high potential for falling behind, and that will not happen." Gabriel's tone suggested that if it did, he would dismember first and ask questions later, which was really entirely too reminiscent of Azrael for Raphael's taste.

"I have a request," Ardouisur said from the opposite end of the table.

"Yes?" Gabriel said, looking faintly surprised. Ari rarely spoke up at meetings.

"Could you assign some students to the Gardens for the next few weeks? It would be much more convenient for me," she said.

Gabriel blinked. "Convenient for what?"

Ari just looked at him, and ensuing snickers brought back the stick-up-his-ass look to Gabriel's face.

"Right," Gabriel said primly. "I'll assign you four young men, if that will suffice."

"A short refractory period would be best," the Metatron said.

Gabriel scowled at him. "And how would I know if they had one or not?"

Uriel raised his hand.

"Have you been sleeping with students again?" Gabriel demanded.

"No," Uriel lied. Raphael had heard interesting noises coming from his office last week.

"I think we should have a party of our own," the Metatron said. "It's been years since the last one, Gabby."

"That's because at the last one, you cornered me under the mistletoe," Gabriel said icily.

"That was so not my fault! I was drunk, and the Most Holy took possession of my body!"

"A likely story," Gabriel sniffed.

"Okay, everybody else who doesn't have bizarre chastity issues, are we up for a party?" the Metatron asked.

"I'll bake," Suriel volunteered.

"I'll mix drinks," Azrael said.

"Like hell," Uriel muttered. "That shit will kill me. Again."

"Raphael-sama and I will decorate," Mikael said.

_Oooh, volunteered by the missus_, Uriel teased.

_Bite me hard_, Raphael sent back cheerfully.

"I think we need costumes," the Metatron said, making a minute adjustment to his hat.

"It's Christmas, not Halloween," Ari objected.

"How about a fancy dress?" the Metatron wheedled. "C'mon, Ari honey, don't you deserve a new dress? I bet that girl of yours would like it."

Raphael and the others were treated to one of the few times in memory when Ardouisur actually blushed. It was rather becoming.

"Well, maybe," she said.

"Excellent! A proper party, with food and drinks and fancy clothes!" the Metatron said, nearly clapping his hands with delight.

Gabriel had a look of abject horror on his face, as though he could not quite comprehend how control of the situation had gotten away from him so quickly. "We're not having a party."

"Oh really?" the Metatron cooed. "Want to have me call a certain Someone, just to be sure?"

Gabriel blanched.

Point, set, and match. "Party at my place next Friday!" the Metatron said.

"Meeting dismissed," Gabriel said weakly.

On their way out, Mikael suddenly thought at him, _White, hmm?_

_I might actually already have one. And matching stockings_, Raphael said, trying to recall where he might have stashed them.

Mikael's look of _interest_ was a little surprising, but nonetheless delightful.

"Hey, Raphael, got a minute?" Uriel called.

"Sorry, no, off to have mildly kinky sex," Raphael said, steering Mikael toward their house.

"Yeah, okay," Uriel said. Someone tapped him on the back, and he turned around.

The Metatron smiled at him. "How about I sit on your lap, and you tell me what you want for Christmas?"

"It's a long list," Uriel said, inching a hand up the hem of the red skirt.

"Oh, do tell," the Metatron purred.


	30. The Learning Process

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally written/posted October 2010. A continuation of the Uriel-Cassiel-Miniel story arc. Includes enough details that you can read it blind if you want to, though of course it actually builds off the events of a number of earlier Tenshi Gakuen fics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, how did I never add this one? I just discovered it had never been added to the index! I wrote it in Oct 2010, right after uploading all of the original (ancient) Tenshi Gakuen. When I uploaded it, I went back and reread all of it. And was overcome with NOSTALGIA... nostalgia and a realization that I had never started to resolve one big subplot/character arc. And was reminded I'd really wanted to.
> 
> Thanks to @thehoyden for the beta.

Cassiel really, really hated fighting with Uriel. Everybody hated fighting with Uriel, so it was no particular surprise that _Cassiel_ did. It was a rare event, to be fair, but not exactly a fun one.

"No, no, and also no," Uriel said. He was gesturing more broadly with each repetition, arms crossing then sweeping out to the side in denial. "You don't know what you're asking of me, Cass."

The trouble was that Uriel got completely _unreasonable_ when he was stressed out. Most most of the time, he did everything he could to _avoid_ facing his own problems, which meant that when someone actually called him on them he more or less freaked out. Cassiel, who had a pretty good idea of what part of Uriel's history he was coming up against with this whole problem, said, patiently, quietly, "All I'm asking is that you try, Uriel. He's your friend."

"No, he's not," Uriel said, flatly. He took his hat off, ran his fingers through ragged hair, cut to different lengths. "I don't have friends who go running to the other side. Who use me for personal gain. Frankly, the fact you took him in when he came crawling back says more about you than I ever realized."

He doesn't mean it, Cassiel reminded himself to soothe the sting. Nevertheless, he could feel his patience wearing thin. He leaned against Uriel's door as a preemptive measure to keep Uriel from escaping this conversation. "We've all been friends for a very long time," he began.

"You know who else were friends for a very long time? All of the angels before the fall. You know a large group of people who isn't on anyone's party invite list anymore?" Uriel's blue eyes had gone stormy, flecked with electricity. Not promising.

Cassiel's lips tightened. "That's not the same. I really doubt most of the prefall angels would appreciate the comparison of the original fallen, none of whom ever returned, to a friend who's been able and allowed to redeem."

Uriel, who was a frequent bedmate of one of the oldest prefall angels -- and would be the _constant_ bedmate if the Metatron had his way -- looked uncomfortable at getting called on it. Not something he would want repeated to the missus, Cassiel thought. "It's close enough," Uriel said, stubbornly. "It's still a good comparison."

"I can't speak for the Most Holy," Cassiel said, quiet. "But I've wondered before if the reason that, back before the fall, the proclamation was made to have most angels be made from humans was due to the significance of carrying our pasts with us. The significance of the faith that comes from overcoming that. All humans have grown up with our petty human hurts and the eventual pain of death. What makes some of us candidates for angelhood? I don't know. I can't judge. You, me, Miniel, we all died in fear, and never lived lives that would be considered holy. That I'm a child of Israel didn't make me more of a chosen one than you, a warrior who barely considered his gods, or Miniel, who sold his body in devotion to his goddess. We all ended up here together. We all became angels together. And whether you can accept him as your friend, Miniel is the Angel of Lust again. That was out of your or my hands and has everything to do with his own willingness to have faith in a greater purpose and the Most Holy's willingness to accept him back. There's a reason the fallen are called the Unfaithful, you know? Miniel rediscovered trust."

It was not, in a word, going over well. "So what's your point?" Uriel demanded, pacing restlessly, energy gathered too-high.

No help for it. "To err is human," Cassiel quoted,"to forgive divine."

"Yes, great, very _pithy_, Cass," Uriel snapped. "If this is what your classes are like, no wonder you're such a popular teacher. Because, wow, lecture much? You don't get to speak for me. I'm the Angel of Wrath. Exactly what place does forgiveness have for me?"

"I can't tell you that," Cassiel said, locking his fingers together in front of himself to try to keep his hands from shaking. Fights were not his forte. Whenever a voice was raised at him he really had to fight the urge to go somewhere private and cry. "I know you don't, generally, need to forgive the big betrayals. But, Uriel, your comparison -- to the oldest angels, the big betrayal is the fall. That's, in a word, big. It's huge. But to us -- to you -- the big betrayal is the friend you trusted to guard your back who didn't do it."

Uriel went white; Cassiel's stomach tightened at the sight, but he had no desire to backpedal. He didn't expect Uriel to ever get over his own death any more than the rest of them, honestly, but somebody needed to say it.

"It's not fair to act like this is on the same level as the Fall. This is personal for you. It's not -- anything you can claim your role applies to. Miniel wants to apologize," Cassiel said. "Don't you at least want to find out why? Talk to him, Uriel. For your sake as well as his."

Uriel wasn't looking at Cassiel anymore. "If he wants to talk, he can come to me."

"You know his movements are restricted while he's trying to earn back other people's trust. He's not permitted on campus yet. Uriel, don't ask that of him."

"Well, that's what I'm asking," Uriel said, and stormed out of his own office.

***

Miniel's heart stuttered when the door opened again, but it was Cassiel. Not that he was a _bad_ face to see -- Cassiel was about the only person he _didn't_ have to worry about right now -- but it wasn't the person he'd hoped would come over. "Cass! Did you talk to--"

There was a thump. Cassiel looked up at him from where he was now sprawled in the entryway. "Hm?"

"...Oh, Cass," Miniel said, not unsympathetically. Cassiel had always had worse luck than anyone else he knew. If there was a five percent chance of rain, the Angel of Tears would step outside and it would abruptly become one hundred percent. His watch stopped every third day and he was late for more things than he was on time for. If there was something to trip over, he'd trip over it. Just as he'd just done with something in their entryway.

As he went over to give Cassiel a hand up, he added their friendship to the list of things that Cassiel was probably unlucky to have in his life.

"Thanks," Cassiel murmured to him. Neither of them bothered to look for whatever it was that tripped him up. It was just how things were. "Dinner smells good."

Miniel had never considered himself a particularly good cook, but he wasn't _terrible_, and if he was going to be stuck inside the house, he'd told Cassiel that now was as good a chance to practice as any, though privately he figured that if he hadn't gotten better than 'tolerable' in around three thousand years, he probably wasn't going to improve much.

But Cassiel was out there taking the flak for taking him in after he'd fucked both Uriel and Cassiel himself over, and if all he could do was chores around the home, he'd do it.

"Say that after you've tried it," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "...So, uh, how'd it go with Uriel?"

Cassiel's silence answered that question more thoroughly than he'd have liked.

"Anyway, table's set," Miniel said, trying to rush past the moment.

As Cassiel took a seat, Miniel served him slightly-too-floury stew. "He's hurt," Cassiel says, finally. "You know his trust issues."

_Which I made worse_. "Yeah. I know."

What else was there to say? He'd ruined this for himself and hurt others along the way, which seemed to be his modus operandi lately. He lowered his head over his own stew and became aware of Cassiel studying him a few moments later.

He wondered if he looked any different to Cassiel after all this. It was a strange thought; none of them visibly changed after they died. They dressed differently over the years, of course, styled themselves differently, but their underlying core never changed. Cassiel may have started to favor baggy jeans and sweaters with leather patches on the elbow, but under that he still was the shaggy-haired boy of sixteen that Miniel known for thousands of years now. Cassiel had died young; in a fire, was all he'd said about it, and neither he nor Uriel had pressed for more information. Every death was personal and a private source of pain to someone.

He didn't think he'd changed too much himself, though he was still carrying the half-healed bruises and cuts that were his memento of turning Unfaithful. He still had his dancer's body and muscles from life, even if life had been a thousand years BC. Even the same haircut, the outer layer in a pageboy and the lower level long, though that was hard enough to make fashionable these days. Too similar to fucking mullets; not classy at all anymore. Maybe it was his clothes that made him seem different -- nothing elegant anymore and no more relics of a long-past time. Instead he wore exercise pants because, even if he looked better in jeans, he wanted to be able to move freely; a tank top, jingling chain necklaces. Come to think of it, he'd left his dancer's outfit he died in back at the Court. He'd packed it when he left, but hadn't really got to Earth with the bag he packed, had arrived naked. No getting it back now. A weird feeling; even if it had been a while since he wore it, he always kept it close.

"How did they get to you?" Cassiel asked softly.

No need to ask who he meant. His introspection must have been showing. Miniel leaned over, plucked a potato from where it had fallen onto Cassiel's shirtfront, and sighed.

"I guess I was wearing myself down," Miniel acknowledged after a moment. "Before I headed off to Earth, I went for a night out on the town with Uriel." Cassiel nodded, clearly remembering waving them off to go have fun. "After we had a few drinks, we went off to the soldier barracks. You know Uriel, always trying to relive old glory by proxy."

He hesitated then, staring at his stew with no appetite, wondering if he even still had the right to say things like that. Cassiel waved him on.

"It's doesn't exactly take my role's abilities as Angel of Lust to pick up that what he wanted from them and vice versa weren't in balance, even if he acted like he was just in it for the fun," Miniel says with a shrug. "Especially with how unnecessary the Barracks tend to find the school and it's teachers. 'We're still at war' and all that. Even if they don't know he was branded as a traitor at death, they wouldn't respect him just for choosing to teach now rather than fight."

Cassiel was watching him with dark eyes. Miniel pushed stew around with a fork. "Anyway, he takes me, we have fun, sure. Gambling, drinking, fucking. But it's -- they don't think much of him. He can shrug off all kinds of shit they say. Like he's a whore or aiming for a fall."

Cassiel made a face. "Well, there's a reason the school's graduates are trained to deal with people and the soldiers are trained to maintain the front line in the war. Not to mention that they've all lost people to the demons -- in multiple ways. They're hard people and Uriel's got a pretty luxurious life..."

Miniel shrugged. "I'm not blaming them for my fall," he said. It came out more harshly than he'd intended. "They're just words I take to heart and Uriel doesn't. He doesn't have to. He can stop any time it stops working for him. I can't. 'If acting like this is going to lead to a fall then I'll fall someday.' That's what it felt like."

"After this long--"

"You don't know how long I've thought this," Miniel said. Cassiel fell silent. "I don't teach -- I don't do anything with angels except..." He trailed off, started again. "I don't even know what I'm supposed to do here. I've asked before. 'Your purpose' isn't exactly revealing. What's my purpose? So I hang out here until Gabriel gives me lists of locations and dates and then I hit up Earth for a few decades, inspire lust wherever I go, and come back to do it all over again."

Cassiel said, slowly, "None of us became teachers just because we were 'supposed' to, though, Miniel. It's not something we're 'supposed' to do. It's suggested to us at the beginning, of course, or soldiers, or anything else that accompanies our official duties well enough, but we don't end up there by fate. If you wanted to teach, you could ask Gabriel and he'd adjust your schedule--"

"Not now I can't," Miniel said. "Anyway, what would I even teach? Fucking 101? I've heard Uriel basically covers that in half his classes anyway."

Cassiel sighed, didn't rise to it. "It doesn't matter what we teach," he said. "Classes are ultimately to teach students what it's like to be an angel. Raphael's classes are full of whatever random idea seized his mind at the moment he woke up that morning. Mikael favors literary analysis. Azrael usually drops half his lessons and tells the class to show up at the end and tell him what they learned since he's usually too busy to actually teach even when he thinks he has the time." Cassiel wrinkled his nose; this was apparently a point of contention between them. "I teach dead civilizations. The point is that they need to understand human will, human desires, human ambitions. We exist for humanity and will only rarely understand the repercussions of our actions on the world -- only that we must make them."

"I _know_ that," Miniel said, though he did know that was the problem; he'd grown to hate not knowing why he had to do something. He skewered a carrot. "Ours is not to reason why... I suck at obedience, Cass! You know that. You got in trouble along with Uriel and me for our pranks often enough."

"I don't think it's the same type of obedience," Cassiel pointed out dryly.

"So, what, I'm just supposed to spend eternity as a whore?" Minirl burst out. "Angel of Lust -- what the hell is that, anyway? Sin might not be the concept here that they _think_ it is on Earth, but you know where I have to do my duty? Earth!" He puts a hand to his own chest. "It's compulsive or something -- I get upset, I want to fuck to feel better. Feeling good? Let's fuck to celebrate! And I inspire that in others! The desire between two people who haven't met, or who suddenly find themselves attracted -- but, sure, a lot of the people I inspire feel guilty about it. And me, too."

It hurt too much to continue; he shut up, staring at the table, listened to the silence between them, and finished, "I ran into some demons, several trips ago. Not bad people for demons. You know me. I slept with them. This most recent visit, I guess near the start, eight years ago maybe, they said there was someone they wanted me to meet. It was the Leviathan. We talked a lot over the years. He showed me... visions. Of you two. Talking about me." Whore. Slut.

"Your fears," Cassiel said, near tears. It was always really hard to handle it when Cassiel cried, which was unfortunate because he did it a lot.

Miniel closed his eyes. "I know. I believe you." Now. "That you never said them. It was believable at the time. _I_ said it often enough about me."

Cassiel took his hand, held it tight. "We were given a tough lot, the three of us," he said, choked up. "Desire. Grief. Rage. Three of the greatest involuntary, unreasoned human emotions, three that can inspire great heights or destroy individuals equally... I think about it a lot. Love is reasoned lust, sorrow is reasoned sadness. Determination is reasoned anger. But we aren't those things. We're lust, tears, wrath, and those are our obstacles as well as our duty."

Cassiel was weeping openly now. Miniel watched him, helplessly.

"We're individuals too, struggling against it. My sociable loneliness, your erotic guilt, Uriel's lassaiz-faire attitude while he's so angry, you know, so angry all the time... I think all angels go through this. You've seen the Deaths after a bad day; even Azrael cries when he thinks nobody's watching, and he's one of the oldest. We have to question, or what meaning do we have as individuals with free will? But oh, Miniel, oh, we _have_ to believe that there's a purpose, that we're doing good. That's faith, that's what faith _is_."

Miniel dropped Cassiel's hand, came around the table, gathered that small shaking form into his arms. Cassiel's pain echoed outward in waves, filling the room. "Shh, shh. We'll be okay," Miniel soothed, and kissed him.

***

"Wow," the Metatron said with an artfully arched eyebrow, holding his hand up to ponder his fresh nail polish with a critical eye. "Someone pissed in _your_ cereal today."

Uriel realized the expression that must have been on his face as he looked over papers he had to grade, and gave him a pained smile instead. "Sorry, Koe. First-year essays." He was working in the Metatron's office today because his own office was a little quiet for his tastes right now and, well, the Faculty Office's door had a sock on the knob.

"Uh-huuuuuuh..." He switched eyebrows, probably for dramatic effect. "Honey, can you remember the last time you turned the page?"

He couldn't. Flicking his fedora back with a fingertip, he said, "Fine, okay. It's Miniel, and given the subject in question it's more like he came in my cereal. Satisfied?"

The Metatron wrinkled his nose. "Ew. Unnecessarily evocative. I know what _I'm_ not having for breakfast tomorrow." Beat. "Quit that!" Beat. "Yeah, but liking the taste doesn't mean I want Spoogios for breaky." Beat. "OMFG no! Get out!"

Who _said_ 'OMFG', let alone to the G in question? Uriel resolved to beat Raphael later for getting the Metatron a cellphone. "Not today, Koe, okay?" As if he could stop the one-sided duologue.

"Sorrrrrry." The Metatron hopped onto his own desk, scattering the papers Uriel had put there; he'd thought working at the other side of the desk might have a safety distance but apparently not; the Metatron braced six-inch platform shoes on his thighs, content to just rest his feet on Uriel's legs. "So you've been talking to Miniel."

"...Well, no."

This time both brows shot skyward. "Then?"

Strangely uncomfortable, Uriel squirmed. "Cass thinks I should. He should be on my side, here! I've got nothing to say to Miniel. He used me. People could have got hurt -- could have died. Why should I forgive him?"

"Well, He did." The Metatron jerked a thumb toward the ceiling.

"I'm not Him."

"Yeah, that'd be weird," the Metatron agreed, nose wrinkling.

"Forget it," Uriel said, pushing away from the Metateon's heels and starting to gather his papers up. "I don't want to think about Miniel, let alone talk to him."

The Metatron hugged his knees, watching Uriel from his perch. "He _was_ your best friend for something-something thousand years, Uriel. As a person, I'm not really happy with him either, but as an angel, as the Voice? He's back, you know, and with enough intention to stay that he was _allowed_ back. And whatever you feel right now, it's better if he's here to stay than the alternative. You're gonna have to deal with him sometime."

"You don't get it," he said, trying not to snap. "I don't want to. He and Cassiel are welcome to each other! I don't need friends who will stab me in the back!" And don't I sound petulant, he thought. He _felt_ petulant, but didn't stop himself from stomping out of the Metatron's office; he could hear him calling after _Are we fighting again?! I hate it when we fight!_

He also felt a bit better, though, for getting to yell at _someone_ about this whole damn thing.

***

After, curled close to Cassiel, Miniel had to admit he felt a little better. He could practically wrap himself around the smaller man and, lithe and twisting, tried his best to do so.

Cassiel choked out an almost-laugh. "Nnn, stop that."

"Won't," Miniel said. "Shan't. You feel good."

"I'd hope so," Cassiel said, sleepy, sated. "I love you."

"You too," Miniel murmured, pressing his face into Cassiel's tangled hair. And, awkward, "Thank you for trusting me."

Cassiel stroked Miniel's back with his fingertips, slow and light. "I don't think Uriel will come here to see you," he murmured. Miniel tensed and felt Cassiel's fingers push tighter for a moment in response. "What are you going to do?"

"I can't go to him." He made a face to forestall anything Cassiel might say. "I'm not allowed on campus."

"Without permission."

Miniel hesitated. "Do you think I'd get it?"

Cassiel considered the question. "Yes," he said, finally. "If they wanted you to just rot away you wouldn't have been welcomed back."

He struggled a few moments, trying to find words that didn't make him sound completely lame, but gave up, helpless. "I'm terrified," Miniel told him softly. "I'm not sure I could do it. Every damn angel knows I went Unfaithful. The Metatron confronted me in front of everyone."

"To be fair," Cassiel said dryly, pulling away a bit and rising, "I'm given to understand you were hard to find after you possessed Uriel. It wasn't about shaming you."

Miniel squirmed, watching Cassiel dig through a pile of papers. "I'm aware of that," he mumbled. "I brought it on myself. But-"

"Here." Cassiel handed him a form. Paperwork; permissions. "I'll take it in if you fill it out."

"Ugh," Miniel said, and held out a hand for a pen. "Why are you always so pushy? I don't know why I think you're cute."

"Because I _am_ cute," Cassiel said, mildly.

Miniel pretended to ignore him, reading ahead on the paper. "Argh, I need to write a reason down? What do I say, crawling back to Uriel to grovel and beg for forgiveness?"

Cassiel started to dress. "If you're going to put it like that, you should also add a note that you need to apologize for being such a heinous bitch," he said, more teasing than not.

Miniel opened his mouth, then closed it. "I'm always a heinous bitch," he pointed out.

"Rephrase it," Cassiel suggested.

***

"To whom it may concern, probably Gabriel," Gabriel read aloud with no intonation whatsoever. "Although I am generally a heinous bitch by nature I outdid myself in horrific ways. Although I recognize there's a very clear reason you might be reluctant to allow me at a school full of nubile and easily-influenced angel candidates, I am long overdue to go crawling back to Uriel and beg for his forgiveness or, at least, apologize."

Cassiel waited quietly in front of his desk.

"So," Gabriel said dryly, "genuinely contrite or just flippant?"

"Contrite," Cassiel said. "And also flippant. Bravado's a better coping mechanism than denial or moping, at least" He considered this, aware that it was a pot and a kettle situation, but he supposed it took one to know one. "He's been moping quite a bit."

Gabriel considered the note a moment longer, then signed a date. "One-day pass," he said tersely. "He can have a longer one next time if he shows any progress with this one."

Taking the paper back, Cassiel ventured a small smile. "I'll pass that on."

"I won't consider dalliances with nubile students progress," Gabriel added.

"I'll pass that on too."

***

It was not, Uriel thought the day after he'd had his spat with the Metatron, that anything particular had gone wrong today to put him in such an off mood.

But today seemed to be the sort of day where little things just seemed to build up. The Metatron had texted him three times in the morning alone, and who knew how many more since he turned his phone off. It'd be easier to apologize, probably, but he didn't want to deal with it right now. On top of that, news of one of his perceived transgressions had made it back to Raphael and Mikael, who had then made themselves cheerfully (Raphael) and passive-aggressively (Mikael) impossible to be around. So he'd headed back to his office and somehow scratched the leather of his boots on the way back there. Not that he could blame that on anyone in particular, but it annoyed him; they had gone so nicely with his suit. He wasn't even _into_ shoes -- not like someone he could name -- but it was just the icing on the cake. There was really no salvaging leather once it was scratched up.

And now, of course, the sunlight was endeavoring to hit his eyes no matter where he tried to sit. It was like, perhaps, someone was trying to send him a message. Given that he was dating the Metatron and had just been an unreasonable douchebag, he was aware that this was maybe a more likely possibility than it should be.

So when the knock came at the door, he almost -- almost -- convinced himself to pull a Gabriel and pretend to be out. Whatever it was would probably just be another nail in his coffin.

But no, he decided; sitting by himself was only making him sulkier, and he had to start facing the day at _some_ point. Perhaps whoever was at the door would be sufficiently attractive and fun-loving to cheer him up.

"Come in," he called.

Miniel entered.

For a moment he felt nothing but a profound sense of irony.

And then he was feeling too many things to name, too many to figure out what was supposed to come first. Anger. Pain. Miniel looked like shit, thin and with bruises greening over an eye, by the corner of his lips, on his throat, chest, arms. Gone was that driven confidence in his eyes the last time they'd met; they were dull and vulnerable now.

Anger. Concern. Pain. Loss. Hope. They wound tight into a sour taste in his mouth and a frustrated, grieving rage. He opened his mouth.

"I'm sorry," Miniel said.

Uriel felt more than heard the incredulous laugh that bubbled up in his throat. "Look, Miniel, there's some things an apology won't solve."

It was weird, wrong, seeing Miniel like this, small and tired and empty of any defensive front, standing in his room with his hands twisted together and his head bowed.

"I know," Miniel said. "I don't really expect to be forgiven or anything." One corner of his mouth twisted up in a parody of his usual smile. "Don't get me wrong -- I wish, right? But I'm just here to give you that apology. I wronged you. Badly. I knew what would hurt you most and did it anyway. I did it because I didn't have the-" His voice broke and smile fixed itself tighter as he continued. "I didn't believe in you. After this many years I still didn't believe I was worth anything, so how could I believe in your feelings? Or Cass's... Or anyone's. I was a mess, Uriel, and I hurt you."

"Get the hell out," Uriel said, chest clenching again. "What the hell did I do wrong?"

"You didn't," Miniel said, smile held on as if he were afraid it would fall off as soon as he started paying attention. "That's why... well, part of why I needed to apologize."

"I don't want your apologies," Uriel said. Looking Miniel in the face was too hard to do, so he stared down at his papers instead. "I just don't want to see you."

"All right," Miniel says, more an exhalation than actual words. "I understand. Sorry." Uriel didn't look up but watched him through his eyelashes as Miniel moved to the door, paused by it. "I love you," Miniel added, apologetically, pained, and then he was gone.

***

When Cassiel stopped by his own office to check his class mail and pick up a few books, Miniel was there. Cassiel bit his lower lip at the sight of him; Miniel was curled up in his desk chair, hugging his knees.

"Oh," Cassiel breathed; the feeling rolling off Miniel was something he was far too familiar with. He came over, put a hand on Miniel's bowed head.

Miniel stirred at that, though he must have heard Cassiel come in before.

"Uriel didn't...?"

A short, thick laugh. "It's fine," Minisl said, resigned. "Things don't get fixed so easily. I wouldn't want to forgive me after something like that either."

"You _haven't_ forgiven you," Cassiel pointed out. He stroked Miniel's hair. "Do you want to go home?"

"...Yeah."

"Come on," Cassiel said, urging him up.

When they got home, Miniel went right to bed. When Cassiel called him for dinner, he didn't respond and Cassiel, checking on him, found him either sleeping or faking it well enough to justify not waking him. Cassiel ate by himself and covered Miniel's share.

"I'm going out," he called, got no response.

He found Uriel at the third bar he checked, came upon him laughing and draped over a brother and sister pair, who seemed deeply interested in whatever story Uriel was telling them.

Cassiel slid in quietly next to them at the bar, watched Uriel pretend to not have noticed him as he finished his story. Uriel smelled of sex and alcohol, and had apparently gotten quite a head start on his night on the town.

This was how it always went when Uriel got upset, too afraid to let his rage build, too afraid of what he could do unchecked, but too desperate for release to not do anything. Not that it didn't resemble his normal behavior; of course it did. Not that he didn't like it; of course he did. Nothing but the best hedonism, his favorite pleasures, were things that could drown out everything else.

Uriel kissed the sibling on the right, the sister, and for a moment Cassiel wondered if he was to be ignored completely. But Uriel, laughing, sent them away after that, draped himself decisively on Cassiel. Did it take him that long to decide how to react to me? Cassiel wondered.

"Hey, Cass," Uriel breathed. "Not usually your scene."

"Not by myself anyway," he agreed, and made a face at Uriel's breath. "I think you've had enough. Let's stop, okay?"

"No," Uriel protested. "I'm having fun, let's have fun, Cass."

Fortunately, Uriel was pretty easy to handle like this. "All right," Cassiel said, placatingly. "A beer for both of us-" He signalled the bartender, "-then let's get going, okay?"

"It's still early," Uriel protested, but took a swig of his beer as soon as it was put down in front of him.

"You're very drunk," Cassiel pointed out; if Uriel was showing any drunkenness at all, he was basically wasted. "So it being early doesn't exactly mean much. Where are you staying these days? The Tower, I heard?"

"Take me to your place," Uriel wheedled. "I missed you when you were on Earth, let's have some fun..."

Cassiel glanced at him uncertainly. "I don't mind," he said, slowly, "but you do remember I'm living with Miniel right now, right?"

"Oh yeah, of course..." Uriel wrinkled his nose. "Why are you doing _that_?"

Cassiel finished his own beer. "Among other reasons, because when he was Unfaithful and staying at the Court, he was tortured via isolation," he said flatly. "I don't intend to let him be isolated now that he's come home."

"You're siding with him again," Uriel said, hurt. "Fair's fair. He can be lonely for a while."

Cassiel closed his eyes at the tone in Uriel's voice. "I love you both," he said, trying to keep his voice even, trying not to give in to his natural inclination to long for the past, to wish for the time they all lived together, played together, felt the same way about things -- or seemed to. Even if he'd been the outsider to Uriel and Miniel's dramatic duo at first, it had evolved into something he'd thought of as deeply balanced, something much better than this three-way alienation. But things were different now. They'd been drifting away slowly over hundreds of years to the point that Miniel's fall was possible. To the point that something like this could speed their deterioration along so quickly. Still, it had been good.

"Cass..."

"If I didn't, I wouldn't either be living with him _or_ here to drag your drunk ass home and take care of you," Cassiel murmured. "Come on. The Tower?"

"No, can't," Uriel protested. "I fought with Koe, so I can't just go back. I'm fighting with everyone lately. Am I fighting with you, Cass? Can't, can I. You don't fight, you just get sad and quiet. I feel like shit."

Despite himself, he was a little taken-aback by this turn of events. "Why are you fighting with the Metatron?" Cassiel asked.

A long, considering silence.

"Do you even remember?"

Uriel said, "I'm sure it was important... Maybe Miniel? Probably Miniel. Everyone thinks I should forgive him. I don't want to forgive him. He used me. I don't want to."

Cassiel helped Uriel off the bar stool and out, started to steer him to the Tower. "Yes, well, that's not the Metatron's fault," he pointed out.

"No, it's Miniel's," Uriel agreed. "...Why am I fighting with Koe?"

"Let's go apologize," Cassiel suggested.

"I really should. He hates it when we fight but we're always fighting..."

"Always?" Cassiel asked.

"Well, sometimes," Uriel said with exaggerated patience. "He's in love with me, you know."

"Really."

Uriel nodded. "I'm pretty sure," he said gloomily. "But our personalities are, they're, what's the word? Incompatible. We are not very similar. The sex is great," he added helpfully, "but I don't think I relate to him. I keep messing up."

"By doing things like sleeping with half the town while completely soused?" Cassiel asked.

"Yes. No. Well, from his perspective, yes. I never promised monogamy. Can you imagine me monogamous? No you can't."

Despite himself, Cassiel realized he was having a little fun. Uriel was, at least, an extremely entertaining drunk, and it was nice to not have the recent tension between them for once. "No, I can't."

"Exactly! And he says that too, that he can't imagine it. But with this ...face. This awful pout." Uriel imitated a sulk for a few moments. "I give him so much, you know? But it's like, our personalities are... are..."

A few moments later, Cassiel suggested, "Incompatible?"

"Yes! But no. Because I like him. But he drives me crazy."

"I'd suggest the feeling's mutual?"

Uriel nodded gloomily. "I'd drive anyone crazy. _Honestly_, Cass. I really need to apologize." A beat, then his eyes widened. "I know!" He took on a distant, pained expression, like a martyr seeing the stake. "I'll take him shoe shopping."

Cassiel put a hand on Uriel's shoulder. "Brave man."

"No, I'm not," Uriel said, suddenly morose. "I'm not. Let me go, Cass, I can fly there from here."

Dubious, Cassiel glanced up. "Are you sure? The updrafts are tricky."

"You're like that too," Uriel said. "Nothing like me, but I love you. Miniel was always too much like me. Yeah, I can take it from here. Bye, Cass."

He was off before Cassiel could respond, strong wings beating the air into a fury as he rose. Running again, Cassiel thought, fond and sad and resigned.

***

Strangely, by the time morning came, Miniel found his mood improved. Not a _lot_ improved, of course, but he felt... determined. Like he'd done what he could, and now there was nothing to do but something _other_ than worry about Uriel. He might not get forgiveness, but he'd abused and lost faith in Uriel, after all. He'd made his choices, and though being forgiven for them might have been all he could want, it wasn't something he was entitled to. So if he didn't get it, that was fair.

And he'd been redeemed after all, had been offered that much faith. And he had Cassiel. He wasn't starting from scratch, after all.

He took a deep breath, let it out, and started to clear a space in the living room.

***

The Metatron forgave him, of course, irritated, put upon, and tender. Uriel was drunk enough that apologizing had been easier than it might have been otherwise, and not so drunk that his apology seemed insincere or as if he hadn't thought about it.

"I shouldn't have brought Miniel up, I guess," the Metatron said, finally. "I know the situation's been totally getting to you."

"I was a dick," Uriel said, draping on him, using him to keep himself upright. The flight helped clear his head, but standing properly was still proving remarkably difficult. "It isn't like I wasn't thinking about him anyway. I just didn't have an excuse to vent about it until you gave it to me."

The Metatron moved away from his hold, leaving Uriel wobbling, then took a seat on his bed. He was wearing a long ribbon-covered nightgown and had his hair up in matching ribboned pigtails. He patted the bed next to him and Uriel sat gratefully, flopping toward him, drawing him in for a kiss. "Cad," the Metatron protested, putting a hand on his face to push him back. "I'm still a little cross!"

"No you aren't," Uriel wheedled, kissing him again, knotting his hands in the Metatron's nightgown when he didn't protest this time. "Because you're too sweet."

The Metatron seemed surprised by the term, looked up at Uriel with wide eyes as Uriel pressed him into the bed.

"I just love you," the Metatron protested, then closed his eyes and kissed back.

***

Cassiel didn't usually sleep in, even on his days off. He tended to not be able to get back to sleep once he'd woken up, and had a bad tendency to wake up with the suspicion he was already late for class. Still, he drifted awake slowly that morning, body heavy and strangely sensuous.

It had been long enough that it took a few moments before he recognized the languid, sensual feeling humming through the air as something outside himself, not simply morning arousal. When he did, he gathered the blankets around himself and shuffled out of the bedroom.

Miniel had cleared himself a space in the living room, Cassiel's books piled haphazardly along the walls, table pushed to one side and tipped up to give him more room, and he was dancing.

There was no music, but Miniel had never needed music to dance. He danced the pounding of blood through veins, the roughness of strangled breath in one's throat, the soft wet pass of lips on lips, the rhythms of bodies together. He was naked; usually he danced clothed, though, Cassiel recalled with light-headed clarity, even doing so rarely made it end in anything but lovemaking. Miniel danced arousal and desire; a promise of desires fulfilled, a promise of movement and pleasure and joy and celebration, a rhythm of life. Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood in order to keep himself from approaching, Cassiel remembered the realization he always had, over and over again, whenever he'd seen Miniel dance: how much could come from passion just by itself. Desire was always a promise and a threat, whatever they made of it.

Miniel saw him, spun to draw close in front of him, cheeks flushed with arousal and exertion, eyes clear. He took hold of Cassiel abruptly and bore him to the floor. Cassiel reached up, shuddering with need, and joined him, let Cassiel dance out the rest straddling him, riding him.

After, Miniel sprawled lazily over Cassiel, a little heavy for Cassiel's comfort, but nothing he wanted to protest. He threaded his fingers through Miniel's hair and shook his head, trying to remember the last time he'd seen Miniel dance. He couldn't; wondered at himself, how he hadn't acknowledged that something had been wrong.

"Cass?" Miniel whispered.

"Mm?"

"Will you do me a favour?"

***

The end of the semester came and start of the next approached. Uriel hadn't talked to Miniel since Miniel had visited his office, though he heard from Cassiel that he was doing well, and that his restrictions on travel had been lifted.

But when he went to pick up the class schedule, he didn't expect _this_.

He went, immediately, to Gabriel's office, entered without knocking. "Yeah, Gabby, hi," he said before Gabriel could protest the intrusion. "Can you explain this?"

Gabriel looked over the agenda Uriel thrust in his face. "Cassiel handed Miniel's proposed course description in a few months ago. They didn't tell you?"

Oh, was _that_ why Cassiel had that little smirk when they talked recently? Little bastard. No wonder he'd ended up fitting into their group so well back then; he had as much trouble resisting stirring things up as Uriel and Miniel ever had. "You're letting Miniel teach?"

Gabriel sat back and gave Uriel an even look. "We don't exactly have a lot of redeemed angels around," he said, "let alone those willing to share their experiences to help others -- it's not exactly a painless story. It's not one that most people are willing to tell and relive."

There wasn't much to say to that. Nevertheless, Uriel did his best to find the words to express his feelings. "Are you sure it's safe?" he tried.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gabriel said, "Yes. Believe me, it's hard for everyone to give him a chance. But he's here now, which means he belongs here. Giving him a chance is what we _have to do_, and if he's willing, there's a lot he can pass on."

"I just don't--"

"You just don't want his experiences to become something useful," Gabriel said, shortly. "You don't want the fact that he fucked you, took over your body, and used it to try to let a strike force into heaven to become something that other people can learn from. You hate the fact he nabbed you and _then_ tried to find Cassiel. Because you know it means that he thought he could pass as you. Because you know it means he knew Cass wouldn't buy that his halo was gone for any good reason, but he could convince you he still had good intentions."

Ow. "How about pulling your punches?" Uriel asked him, hurt.

Gabriel's lips were tight. "Here's the thing," he said, shortly. "Uriel, you're likable. Everybody likes you. On top of that, you do good work. If you have elements of your duty that you question, and I'm sure you do, you don't let it shake you. You're a strong guy. But you have this huge problem that everyone knows about, even if they don't know the reason why, and that is that if anyone actually manages to drive you to that point, you hold grudges forever. Let the hell go. You're Wrath for a divine purpose, not a personal one."

"Yes, because I totally came here to get told off by yet someone else, _thank you for filling out my roster_, I'm planning to visit Az and Suri after this and get told off by them so I can get bingo--"

Gabriel slammed a hand down. "Do not fucking joke with me," he said. "I am being completely goddamn serious right now. I don't have a damn sense of humor. Not about this, not about anything."

At least he admitted it. A little shaken, Uriel licked his lips. "Gabriel, sorry, I just wanted to check--"

"Build a goddamn bridge and get over it," Gabriel told him. He reached into his desk, pulled out two papers, scribbled on them. "Here."

A little surprised, Uriel took them. One was what looked like a street address in the United States. Another was a time and classroom. "...Uh?"

"You're tired of fearing others are going to treat _you_ like a coward because someone _else_ abandoned you and left you to get the flak for the situation?" Gabriel asked. Uriel's vision went white for a moment, emotions almost seeming to fritz out, like something had gone completely wrong inside him. "Tired of going on the offensive first? Better yet -- are you tired of thinking you might actually _be_ a coward because of that? Do something about it."

Uriel's lips moved. He couldn't seem to make words move out; the feeling in his chest was choking him.

"The address is where a human soul was reincarnated to," Gabriel said, voice still sharp, relentless. "I think you know whose it was. He ran away and left your back unguarded in battle when it looked like you two were likely to fall. He was afraid of dying and abandoned you. He saved himself and left you with wounds that had _you_ branded a traitor and coward. He died of old age and was reincarnated. This is hundreds of lives later, and he doesn't remember a thing, but _you're_ not over it yet. So go there if you want. Catch up with his current life. Learn who he is and what's kept him reincarnating so damn long. Or, you know, give up on that. Stop carrying that poor bastard with you all the time. Your choice."

Staring down at the address, Uriel said, "I--"

"The other is Miniel's class time and class room. It's not in the agenda yet as we're still figuring out all the time blocks and locations but we're pretty sure on this one. Go watch him teach, if you want, see what he's learned from his experience. Or don't. Your choice."

Uriel's hand dropped to his side, holding both pieces of paper. Finally, he managed to choke words out. "Am I dismissed yet?"

"Door's right behind you."

***  
One week until class started: registration hell, including a lot of preparatory e-mails and messages about class conflicts and things like that, which Miniel more or less had no idea how to deal with. He usually ended up just pointing out that if someone had to go early or come late, they'd be missing part of the class and that'd have the impact one could expect from, well, missing part of the class.

"How's it going?" Cassiel asked, packing up some boxes.

"I'm completely terrified," Miniel said dryly. "What's that?"

"For your new office," Cassiel said. "Just some books."

Miniel made a face. Cassiel, seeing it, threw a book at him. "Ow!" Miniel protested. "No, I'm grateful, really Cass, please don't hurt me. Not the Anthology of English Literature!"

"You need this sort of thing for students to take you seriously," Cassiel told him, peacefully putting said anthology in the box. "They look at your office and think, 'Wow, Professor Miniel has a lot of books in his office. He must be extremely intelligent.'"

"Somehow I really doubt anyone's going to be thinking that about me," Miniel said. "It's probably going to be more like, 'Wow, Professor Miniel has a really comfy-looking couch in his office. I bet he has _sex_ on that couch.'"

Cassiel picked up the box, surprised. "You have a couch in your office?"

"I am _going_ to have a couch in my office," Miniel said. "I bought it from a garage sale in the city. Raphael is storing it for me at the moment." He grabbed his coat; together, they began to head for the school. "We're going to bring it in today."

"A garage sale? That doesn't sound very sanitary."

Miniel shrugged. "I have had sex in more unsanitary places than I can name," he said. "It hasn't done me any harm."

"So you _are_ going to have sex on that couch?"

"I'm going to have sex on that couch, yeah, naturally," Miniel said. He gave Cassiel a crooked grin. "Want to break it in with me?"

"One, it's currently at Raphael's," Cassiel pointed out. "Two, you got it from a garage sale. So no."

This is nice, Miniel thought, helplessly taken by their banter. New beginnings, but old connections. He hadn't lied; he was terrified, was more or less sure he'd be probably the worst teacher the school had, but despite that, he felt productive. Like he was going somewhere. Doing something. Cass was at his side. The others were slowly taking him in as one of their own -- he'd never known them as well as, perhaps, he should have, since he'd never been part of the school's social circle. But even with his recent history dogging him, he was carving out a place there now. Raphael and Mikael had brought him over cookies when he first opened his office, once an old storage room. _Shit happens_, is all Raphael had said in response to Miniel pointing out that he'd fallen before and probably didn't deserve cookie welcomes, and had put an arm around Mikael for some reason.

"I bet I can convince you otherwise," he told Cassiel impishly.

"I bet you can too, but I'd rather go for the desk."

"Oh, well then," Miniel said. "In that case, I can be generous."

***

One week before classes started: Uriel was more or less ignoring registration woes completely (these things tended to work themselves out, he found) and was, instead, still trying to decide what to do about the situation Gabriel had presented him.

He knew that delaying things wasn't helping anyone, but it was hard to do otherwise; still, he couldn't run away much more. Once classes started again, he'd be too busy to go for a jaunt down to Earth.

Uriel was, he had to admit, running out of time.

It was this thought, eventually, that led him to go. He dressed -- despite his embarrassment at doing it for _him_ \-- in one of his best pinstripe suits and, for the first time in centuries, braided the hair that still fell long in front of his ears.

And then he went.

Even though he'd dressed up for the occasion, he didn't manifest; remained invisible and intangible, walked through the front door of the address he'd been given, and looked around.

There were three college boys there, all dressed a bit, well, hipster. At the time Uriel walked in, one was playing video games, and two were arguing over homework together, loud and easy-going. He watched them all, walked the room, tried to see their faces, and felt a slow, spreading shock:

He couldn't tell which of them it was.

This was the address, all right, and Gabriel wouldn't lie to him, but it was a shared dorm room. The three boys here could have been anyone. As with most reincarnated souls, physically there was no resemblance to their past forms. And any sense of familiar identity from their spirits was long gone -- it had been thousands of years, Uriel thought, slowly, shocked. He'd changed. He'd changed so much he wasn't recognizable anymore. After all this, after so many years of this weighing on him. After all that, the man he'd loved, the man he'd betrayed him, was just another normal person. Even if he died now, even if he managed --- somehow -- to become an angel candidate now so Uriel had to see him every day, Uriel probably wouldn't recognize him any more.

The video-game player scored a great headshot and the other two came over to watch a bit, laughing, sharing in some sort of conversation the gamer had been having over a headset. They were just normal people, Uriel thought, all of them. The person he'd known back then didn't exist any more. Whatever chance he'd had to do the things Gabriel had suggested -- to understand _anything_ about what had happened between them -- it was long gone.

Slowly, shaken, he took out his key and went home.

***

And so the day came. In his office, Miniel tried to breathe easily, gave up, and went to the classroom to set up.

An hour passed -- he was too early, too ahead of himself, but he guessed that was better than being late. The class eventually started to filter in, and he watched their surprise at the fence he'd set up between his desk area -- not that his desk was in it right now, as he'd pushed it to a wall -- and the seating area. He waited until they arrived, took roll call. Three or four students absent; he thought about waiting but decided against it. Cassiel had said that was normal; there were always students who figured they could get away with skipping the first day of class.

So when he'd finished taking attendance, he walked over to his desk, put the book down, and danced.

He kept it light, brief, simple -- these were still young angel-candidates, the usual disproportional amount of them still in their teenage years or early twenties, and probably unprepared for the draw his body had over them as he danced. It was also why he had the fence up; he didn't want a repeat of experiences he'd had in life, for them or for him, of when he'd got swarmed by people too overwhelmed to hold back. He let it last barely a minute -- spinning, leg kicked out, back arching, a dance of hips and shoulders and movement like the air could support him -- and then stopped abruptly, breathing a bit hard, looking out over the flushed faces and shifting forms.

Miniel cleared his throat.

"That's my talent," he said, after he thought he could keep his voice steady; it came out remarkably professional. Good. "When I was alive, I had a form of this talent, which was used as part of my devotion to my goddess. I was a prostitute in the temple of Inanna, a _qadesh_. The selling of my body was viewed as a devotional act. Some of you more modern sorts may be familiar with the term _qadesh_ as mistranslated into sodomite, and as someone deemed a sin to lay with. It's something that's got rather a bad reputation in traditional Judeo-Christian religion, but very few people seem to realize that the reason it was listed as a sin of idolatry in the bible is that to lay with a _qadesh_ was to engage in a sacred act towards a god that wasn't their own."

He smiled a crooked smile, pleased his words were coming out as steadily as they were, and that so far he'd actually kept control of this, made it feel like a lecture. Like something that could actually be discussed, not just a source of private pain. "Of course, we're all a bit shocked, I think, when we come here and learn that all earthly religions are really just derivative of something outside religion, a drive towards the guidance of humanity through many, many ways: those that are painful, those that are pleasurable, those that are uplifting and those that bring struggles. The shock can be something that's hard to get over. For me, originally, I may have been devoted; I was, regardless, a prostitute, with all that entailed. And all the social repercussions that entailed, especially after I came here and mingled among so many other cultures, with even worse views of prostitution than my own. We are all people, unfortunately, we are all individuals who carry our own baggage with us and absorb it from each other. More and more, it seemed to me, that I should be ashamed. My talent, I kept being told, could serve _other_ people. But how? In what way could inspiring lust be uplifting? In life, I more or less accepted that it helped my own connection to the divine, though, hell, I had my share of doubts and pains and loss and shame at the time. Here, the same feelings remained, and more and more questions."

He drew a deep breath. "But the fact is, it does serve. This talent, which I think you all had opinons of even as it washed over you, and almost certainly now, does serve. Now..." He looked out over the dubious, intent faces. "All of you have some talent that you can express, or you wouldn't be here. Maybe you don't know what it is. Maybe you do, but don't see how it can serve anybody. Maybe you know what it is and have confidence in it." He started to break the fence down, then passed a hat through to the nearest student. "I want all of you to think over your talent, the things you know how to do. When the hat gets to you, write one word a piece of paper and drop it in. Here are the words: If you feel useful for your talent, write 'useful' and put it in. If you don't, write 'useless' and put it in."

As the hat went around the room and students murmured among each other, Miniel kept breaking his fence down, then dragged his desk forward. His hands were shaking, but he thought he hid it well enough. He had originally planned on just hand-raising, but had second-guessed that -- students would certainly eye each other and try to follow up later if they saw another one as embarrassed, try to figure out what they had to be ashamed of. Not to mention, they'd be more likely to lie if the answer could be associated with them.

He took the hat back, finally, and started counting them out on his desk. "Useless. Useless. Useless. Useful. Useless..." When he finished, he had one large pile and one small one. "Twenty-seven people viewed their talent as useless," Miniel said. "Six viewed it as useful."

Slowly, he pushed the papers aside, let them fall off his desk, and sat on it. "All right," he said. "Let's talk, now, about how nothing is useless."

***

Cassiel intended to watch Miniel's first class from the doorway, but was, of course, a bit late -- though this time, it was at least partially because he wanted to give Miniel a good chance to get his lesson underway first, out of fear of distracting him.

But by the time he got there, Uriel was already there, door cracked open slightly so he could listen, watching through the window. Cassiel raised his brows at him; Uriel was dressed in a good suit and had a sealed bottle of wine in one hand.

Uriel mimed at him to be quiet -- though he looked a little embarrassed -- and Cassiel instead gestured they go down the hall a little. Uriel followed, though Cassiel hadn't been sure he would.

"How is it?" Cassiel asked, after a moment.

"He's a bit blatant and up front," Uriel said, a bit awkwardly, "but we all were when we started. He'll learn more subtlety as he goes along."

"And the message?"

"Yeah, well," Uriel said. "Those kids could probably use it."

For a moment, they looked at each other silently.

"And the wine?"

Uriel hesitated, looked away. "Just a congratulatory present. That's all."

Cassiel swallowed down the emotion swelling in him; it'd be no good to cry _now_, of all times. Instead he managed a wavery, heartfelt smile. "I see," he croaked.

"Ahhh," Uriel mumbled. "Quit that, Cass," and reached out, wiping Cassiel's eyes with a sleeve. "Come on. I want to catch the end of the lecture."

He didn't want to get his hopes up. Not too high; perhaps Uriel would leave the wine with him to give Miniel. Perhaps Uriel would change his mind and leave early. Perhaps not, though.

And this, even just this, was a step forward. He drew a deep breath, let it out, and gave into his needs, crying silently as he followed Uriel back to the classroom door to wait for Miniel to finish.


End file.
